Zurich 1915

 The small, crowded train pulled its way laboriously out of the city and along the lake. Otto was pleased to find a seat - most often he had to stand for half the journey - but even so he had to tuck his feet back, and there was no room to read his newspaper. At each station the carriage emptied a little. Eventually the passenger opposite stood up. Otto stretched his legs out, but immediately had to retract them when a large, healthy young man asked, in a mild Hamburg accent, if he could possibly sit there.

            Otto nodded. Another conscientious objector no doubt, and probably only recently arrived, for he knew most of the regular passengers by sight, and most of the Germans and Austrians who lived along the line by name. He wondered how the stranger had escaped Germany - he gathered from some of his fellow guests that it was becoming increasingly difficult and expensive. He often congratulated himself on his decision to move to Switzerland two years earlier, when war seemed avoidable.

            The young man glanced at the name of the station, then asked Otto when they would arrive at a particular village.

            “Next stop. I’m going there myself.”

            “And do you know Seehotel Muser?”

            “Yes. It’s the only Gasthof. I’m one of the residents.”

            “Good, then we will be neighbours. Excuse me for not introducing myself before. Von Rendsburg, Claus.” He stood up, clicked his heels, and offered his hand.

            Otto was surprised. There wouldn’t be too many “Vons” hiding away in neutral countries. He rose hurriedly to his feet, and returned the greeting: “Löhne. Professor Otto Löhne. Honoured to make your acquaintance.”

            Von Rendsburg smiled as he returned to his seat: “Likewise. I can tell from your accent that you’re not Swiss. I take it you are a white feather holder like myself?”

            Otto bristled, and remained standing: “Not at all. I work at the Chemische Institut, and have done since 1913.”

            The young man still smiled: “But you didn’t rush back to enlist?”

            This touched a nerve. Otto drew himself up, hand on his breast. Some of the other passengers were now paying attention. “I am a socialist pacifist, sir. This is a capitalist war, and should not be supported by anyone who wants a better world.”

            The newcomer raised an eyebrow doubtfully, then leant forward and murmured confidentially: “Well, I can’t pretend to such principles myself. I simply didn’t want to be shot to pieces. My parents bribed a few officials to get me out.”

*

            Otto sipped his beer and looked across the lake to the hills beyond. Over that range was Germany. Thoughts of his friends, some already dead, others fighting in Poland or France, came unbidden. How many of them would he see again? Could he face meeting them when the time came? Would they not feel that he had let them down, sitting out the conflict in this beautiful valley, with waiters to serve him the delicate lake fish and the fruity local wine? He knew already that this was not a glamorous war. Talk had reached the guest house about the appalling conditions in the trenches on the Western Front. His relief at escaping such horrors was alloyed with self-doubt. How close had Von Rendsburg been to the truth? Was it purely his political conscience that kept him here, or was there an element of cowardice? He had to admit the possibility.

            The terrace was filling up. Watching the sun set behind the mountains, and the reflections it made in the lake, was a favourite pastime of the guests. He had known that he wouldn’t have his table to himself for long, so he wasn’t surprised or particularly irritated when the new guest and another of a similar age asked if they could join him. The second young man was in a melancholy mood. His fiancée had written, breaking off their engagement and citing her disgust at his desertion of his Fatherland.

            The conversation naturally concentrated on lady friends. Von Rendsburg, while trying to comfort his new companion, was relaxed about his personal position:

            “I’m not going to be allowed to marry for love anyway. My parents will tell me who is to become my wife, to help cement some business deal or other. In the mean time, I’m welcome to make whatever dalliances I wish, so long as there’s no question of the fraulein becoming Frau Von Rendsburg. I’m looking forward to getting better acquainted with some of the very pretty Swiss ladies.” He cast an appreciative glance at a passing waitress. “What about you, Herr Professor Löhne? Do you have any romantic attachments that you’re prepared to discuss, in Germany or hereabouts?”

            Otto hesitated. There were matters he certainly didn’t want to make public.

            “Nothing in Germany. On the other hand, I’ve grown rather fond of one of my research workers at the Institut. I’m visiting her family for the first time tomorrow evening.”

            Von Rendsburg raised his glass: “A normal courtship. I congratulate you. Here’s to a successful outcome.”

*

            The sun finally disappeared, the valley grew cool, and one by one the other guests drifted indoors. Otto was left alone with his thoughts. His life wasn’t as simple as Claus assumed, for although his relationship with Magda in the Institut was “normal” there were complications in Germany that he hadn’t mentioned. Certainly if he were to marry Magda (and barring a disastrous meeting with her family he felt sure that he would) he would at least have to tell Rosa. She would be offended if she found out by word of mouth, or read about it in the newspapers.

            Indeed, he would like her blessing, although he felt this would be unlikely from an abandoned lover. He couldn’t tell Magda, of course, but he still loved Rosa, would marry her tomorrow but for the awkward fact that she was already married to his former mentor, would have run away with her had she not refused to leave her children.

            Could it have turned out differently? He had lived with Rosa and Felix for four years, had been attracted to her from the outset, although she was a few years older than himself, but repressed his longings. He also suspected that she harboured similar feelings towards him. A respected scientist in her own right, she was in many ways the intellectual superior of both her husband and their house guest. Politically, like many Jews, she was a radical. She and Otto would argue at length with Felix who, fiercely nationalistic, despised democracy, their anti-militarism and their sympathy for the poor. He was also openly critical of the more orthodox of his co-religionists. He refused to wear the skull cap or observe the Sabbath, indeed he had taken to attending mass and encouraged the Jews working in his laboratory to do the same. While Rosa rarely went to the synagogue, she detested the Church, blaming it for most of the evils in the world. She and Felix had so little in common that Otto wondered what had brought them together, but they seemed affectionate enough. However, when Felix began working with the army, on various secret projects, and this work took him away from home for ever longer spells she turned to Otto, confided her marital problems, started sharing his bed.

            Otto ordered another beer and reflected on those delicious moments. Until then his physical relations with women had been limited to a few unsatisfactory experiments with prostitutes. And since his move to Zurich, nothing. He had yet to broach the topic with Magda. No doubt such matters would arrange themselves suitably once they were married, but for now he felt frustrated, irritated that he had ever left Freiburg, the fleeting touches while Felix was around, the passion and the pillow talk when the army, bless them, called him away.

            And yet he couldn’t regret accepting the post at Zurich. The financial security was important, of course, but there was also an element of escape. Once Rosa had decided that her children meant more to her than anything, that she wouldn’t leave the family home, Otto had realised that their affair couldn’t be permanent. At times he felt relief at her refusal. While he liked to be thought of as a radical when it came to political or economic issues, he had never seen himself as a free-thinker in moral matters. He had always wanted a conventional life, a conventional marriage - dinner parties with colleagues or neighbours, children, gemütlichkeit. Life with Rosa promised ostracism, probable dismissal, perhaps not even children of his own for she was nearing forty. And so he had stood firm in face of her hysterics when the offer came through.

            The waiter approached. Would sir be having anything else that evening? Otto realised how cold it had become. Perhaps he had better retire - he expected a late evening tomorrow.

            “Thank you. no. That will be all.”

*

            “So it’s decided then? There’s soon to be a Frau Professor Löhne? I drink to you, sir and to your future happiness.”

            “Thank you, Herr Von Rendsburg. Yes, I proposed last night, and I am glad to say that  Magda, with her parents’ full approval, accepted.”

            “You must have made a good impression on your first visit last week, then? And I take it you found your future in-laws sympathetic?”

            Otto agreed. Magda’s father, like his own, ran a small metal-working business. The man approved of education, although he had little formal training himself, and had obviously been forward enough in outlook to have sent his daughter to the institute. Both he and his wife were clearly delighted to have a “Herr Professor” in the family.

            The young man looked a little embarrassed:  “Is there a date set yet? I trust it’s not too presumptuous of me, but I look forward to being able to call you my friend, and therefore hope that I can come to your wedding. I must buy you a gift. Do you have a list?”

            “You are much too kind. No, there’s no date yet, but we see no reason for delay, and of course you would be most welcome. Nor do I yet have a list, although I’m sure that Magda and her mother are writing one as we speak. However, there is a still greater kindness that you can do for me. I have neither family nor old friends here in Switzerland, and there is little prospect of those in Germany joining me for my happy day. Could I ask you, if the date we set is convenient, to act as my best man?”

            “My dear sir, nothing would give me more pleasure. Any date you propose is perfect for me. And please, call me Claus from now on. My father will be delighted. I mentioned your name to him in my last letter, and he knows your name well.”

            Excellent. Otto had a reason for cultivating the relative newcomer ahead of some of his longer term acquaintances. When they had first met on the train Otto had wondered where he had heard the name before. A few days later he remembered. Gummiwerk Von Rendsburg of Hamburg, one of the major tyre manufacturers in Germany. This must be the son of the owner. And after the war the elder Herr Von Rendsburg would surely be interested in Otto’s discoveries and patents for making artificial rubber. And he could hardly object to employing a conscientious objector. This seemed to be a timely moment to broach the subject:

            “Thank you, Claus, and you must call me Otto. And your father, would that be the famous rubber producer?”

            “Yes indeed. He will be even more pleased to hear that you referred to him as ‘famous’.”

The talk turned to the war. Claus was horrified by the tales of poison gas, newly employed by their countrymen:

            “My father writes that this disgrace was perpetrated by a former colleague of yours, Herr Doktor Gold. Father seems to know most of the chemists in the country. Apparently Gold’s new process for making explosives is already helping to keep our guns busy.”

            “So I gather. I hadn’t heard about the gas, although it doesn’t surprise me. I find it a scandal that Science should be put to such evil purposes. Felix’s synthetic nitrate should be used for fertiliser, not for explosives.”

            “You may be right, but I would still prefer to see Germany win the war. I know I am hardly the person to talk, sitting here in Switzerland, but I don’t think the Reich was wrong to fight. England and France wanted to strangle our trade. Father only wishes that your own work on artificial rubber was more advanced and could contribute to the war effort. As it is, his factory is almost idle.”

“So you have heard of my work? That is most gratifying, but I must say that I completely disagree with you about the war. However, you already know my opinions, and we mustn’t let any differences lead to a quarrel. Let me offer you a nightcap, and then I must take my leave. I have a letter to write before bed.”

*

            Otto’s letter to Rosa had dealt mostly with his forthcoming marriage, and his wish for her approval. However, he had also mentioned the poison gas, and imagined how upset she must have been about it. On the eve of his wedding he received his reply, but not from Rosa. The letter was in Felix’s ugly script.

France

September 1915

Herr Professor  Löhne

Seehotel Muser

Maderswil

Switzerland

Löhne,

            your letter to my late wife was forwarded to me here on the Western front. In view of our former friendship I suppose you should know that Rosa took her own life some months ago. I take it from the tone of your letter that there was greater intimacy between you and her than I had realised, more even, I presume, than was proper. If such was the case, then I must make it clear that I forgive you, and more especially her. I failed latterly in my duties as a husband, concentrating on my duties to the Fatherland.

      It is in connection with patriotic spirit, or rather your lack of it, and not, I must stress again, with any feeling that you may have betrayed my trust, that I refer to our “former” friendship. Let me say it clearly, sir. You are a coward, perhaps even a traitor. In these dark days, Germany needs and expects that all men of ability lend their talents to the national cause. I make no apologies for lending my talents to the development of new weapons that will shorten the war, and indeed save lives in the long run. However, I don’t expect you to understand this. While you skulk in your nest of deserters there can be no further correspondence between yourself and

Gold

                Later on, talking it over with Magda, Otto tried to analyse how he had felt. Nausea, and a desire to weep like a child, were the clearest manifestations, but too many competing emotions lay behind these physical responses for any simple resolution. Indeed, he couldn’t remember how long he had sat with his mind empty, his grief, shame, anger and bewilderment circling as if outside, shouting for admission. Eventually he became aware of the waiter who was enquiring if he would like more coffee. Otto ordered a schnapps, drank it immediately and asked for a second. The old servant was clearly concerned:

“Bad news from the front, sir?” He indicated the letter.

Otto nodded, hesitated, wondering if he should elaborate. No, the waiter’s phrase was good enough. He wiped his eyes.

“Yes, bad news from the front.”

 As he was finishing his second schnapps he became aware of others on the terrace. It struck him that he did not want to meet Claus just then, and have to explain to the good natured fellow his melancholy on what should have been a happy day. It being a fine morning, he thought he would take a walk around the lake. He had decisions to make.

Did he want to go through with the wedding tomorrow, or should he try to postpone it? No, he was sure the sense of loss would only fade slowly. There was no need to punish Magda for his own feelings of guilt. For that matter, how culpable was he? Their affair had ended some time ago – the break-up was unlikely to have been a major factor at this late stage. Perhaps, probably even, the immediate cause had been Felix’s use of poison gas on the front. Otto could imagine the disgust she would have felt. Maybe if he had been with her he could have stopped her killing herself, but how could he have been with her? Had he remained in Germany, he would have been called up, sent to Poland or France, quite possibly been instrumental in opening the gas canisters. No, he could rationalise away his guilt, but a hatred towards Felix began to crystallise. He needed to strike back, but how? Stuck here, in a neutral country, what could he do to punish a hero of the Fatherland?

As he gazed at the chocolate-box scenery, a clock chimed back in the village and was answered by the clank of cow-bells in the meadow behind him. Suddenly it was clear. The Red Cross, the Geneva Convention – Switzerland was the ideal place to launch a campaign against this inhuman new weapon. And who better to lead it than a distinguished chemist from one of the belligerent nations and a former associate of the chief culprit? The letter he would write was already composing itself in his brain. With a renewed sense of purpose he returned to the hotel to complete the preparations for his marriage.

*

The train from Geneva drew slowly into Zurich. Otto’s working honeymoon had been a huge success. He pointed out to Magda the small welcoming party on the platform – the head of the Institut, a local dignitary, Claus. His life was changing. No could no longer stand aside from the terrible conflict in Europe. He had a role to play in preventing what he had described as “chemical warfare”.

Thinking about Staudinger & Fixation reminded me that I had only put up chapter 1. Here's chapter 2. I'll put up chapter 3 next week - I wasn't happy with the ending of it, and I never really got going on chapter 4 at all, which is why the whole project got stuck.

Liverpool October 1968

 Peer pressure, eh? I was already in the gang, and I wasn’t going to go away, so I couldn’t see the point of this stupid new initiation rite, but I didn’t have much choice. The banger in my gloved hand started to shoot out sparks, and I tensed. I had already seen the ringleaders do the same stunt bare-handed, and escape virtually unharmed, except for maybe red scabby palms, but I was content to stay lower down the pecking order. It wasn’t losing fingers per se that worried me so much - after all, I had another hand - but the thought of what I would tell my mum if anything went wrong.

            The fallout from the game of “Catch the Banger”, a pyrotechnic version of “Pass the Parcel”, had been bad enough. I had the greatest difficulty in explaining away the burn marks around my cheekbone, obtained when I fumbled a head-high “Cannon”. I felt like an idiot and a fraud, for in reality I could have lost an eye.

            Misty autumn evenings always remind me now of those smoggy adolescent nights in the weeks leading up to November 5th. We never called it Guy Fawkes Night. The large number of Catholics in Liverpool who wanted to participate meant that the sectarian origins of the celebration were quietly forgotten. For us it was always just Bonfire (or in the Scouse near-dialect “Bommy”) Night. The preparations would start about a month in advance. Obviously we needed to save our pocket money for boxes of Brock’s and Standard Fireworks and collect firewood. But equally obviously we had to test our purchases and, as we got older, add a few touches of our own. Thanks to atmospheric inversions the smell of gunpowder would linger for hours, mixed with stranger scents from home-made explosives and incendiary devices.                       

            Except for some of the tests of manhood, it was all reasonably harmless. Other gangs went further. Copper pipe bombs filled with weed-killer and sugar thrown onto bonfires. Small children killed by the shrapnel. Given that every side street used to have its bonfire in those days, it was a miracle that the carnage wasn’t greater. We were good guys really, keeping our experiments amongst consenting teenagers, and generally down the back alleys, off the public highway. But nevertheless the gang was crazy about violent chemical reactions, and I was the Chief Chemist.

            The whole atoms and molecules thing had a grip on me from the moment that I realised that there was such a subject. In that respect, I don’t think I was particularly unusual. Most of the boys of my age were into explosions, acids and stink bombs, but for me it developed into a mania. I bought my own Bunsen burner. I would take text books out of the library that were years too advanced for me. I knew the Periodic Table by the time I was eleven.

            Again, while mine wasn’t a common mania, it certainly wasn’t unheard of. And I shared with my friends most of the normal boyhood crazes. There was football, of course, but not at the intensity you might expect, given that this was sixties Liverpool. None of the gang, and few of my classmates went regularly to matches. Lack of money was one reason, as was parental disapproval, for soccer hooliganism was on the increase. But there was also the gang’s perversity in supporting Everton, even though we could have walked to Anfield, could hear the roar whenever the Reds scored, while Goodison was two bus rides away. Why then did we all follow the Blues? Strange as it seems, for all Shankley’s bluster, in the early sixties they were much the more glamorous, more successful team. Even if we couldn’t go to Goodison, we still needed the scores and the match reports. Saturday afternoon pyrotechnics had to be interrupted for Sports Report, and there were generally fights to be the first to read the Pink Echo (a soccer special edition of the local evening paper).

            We were also virtually obliged to worship the Beatles  - it was a civic duty. My secondary school was just around the corner from Penny Lane - fish and finger pies, the barber shop, the Fire Station, all that stuff. And at Christmas they sent hampers and toys to the Salvation Army orphanage at Strawberry Fields. We had no direct connection with the fab four - Penny Lane was a much posher, suburban area than our realm of gardenless terraces, jowlers, delapidated pre-fabs. We were also too young ever to have seen them live, and certainly much too young to have heard them, rather than the screams of their girl fans. Nevertheless, every new single was eagerly awaited, and virtually all the records I have from those days are by The Beatles, or by Paul’s brother’s band, The Scaffold.

            Obviously television, and occasionally the cinema, generated many of our manias. The teleprinter on Grandstand, and Doctor Who straight after it, were required viewing, as was Top of the Pops, but maybe more influential were the spy/action series. It was a crime to miss an episode of The Man from UNCLE, Danger Man (or The Prisoner), The Avengers, Batman. And looming over all these were the Bond films with their spin-off toys, the Corgi Aston Martin with machine guns and an ejector seat, the Airfix autogyro - the more gadgetry the better.

            Then there were comics, and collecting things. We never got into the hard stuff, train-spotting, but we did bus numbers and stamp collecting, the Justice League and innumerable Airfix models. Particularly Panzers, German battleships, strike aircraft. And the boxes of miniature soldiers that went with them, with which we fought ferocious battles, no prisoners, barely a British 8th Army grenade thrower left standing at the end.

            Armed conflict had earlier formed a major part of our schoolyard play in the Juniors - Cowboys and Indians of course, Spies versus the Russians, Marines against the Japanese, but also bizarrely on swimming days Arabs and Foreign Legion. (Towels fixed to the head by swimming cozzies made a suitable approximation to Bedouin dress.) The First World War was a favourite of mine. I was fascinated by the strangeness: the spiked helmets, the funny shaped tanks, the map of Europe being all wrong, but also by the shear monochrome ghastliness of trench foot, barbed wire and poison gas.

            Nevertheless, chemistry was always the business. Not only the spectacular stinks and bangs, but also background stuff, the shapes and structures of molecules. I was once asked to make space-filling representations of some of the simpler ones by cutting up polystyrene balls with a razor, painting them and sticking them together. It was then that I began to take an interest in nitrogen, to wonder at its ambivalence. To model the gas that makes up most of the atmosphere I needed to cut two little blue balls (for that is its conventional colour) almost in half, and glue the bigger bits together. For the nitrogen atom is a narcissistic beast that likes nothing better than to spend its life in a tight embrace with an exact copy of itself. This struck me as hugely important.

            It’s a chemist’s thing - you wouldn’t understand. Even my allies in the back streets wandered off when I tried to explain. But this mundane fact has nagged away at me down the years; and I now view it as the key to understanding Life and twentieth century history.

            Let’s start with Life. At the most prosaic level, you, me, our dogs and cats, we are all bags of bone and water held together by proteins. And to make proteins you need to prize apart those little blue balls, persuade them abandon their partners and hang about with water, oxygen, carbon dioxide.

            And that’s where the problems start, for none of us can do it. Except for a few vegetarians, we get most of our protein by eating herbivores. And the herbivores and vegetarians can’t do it either, they have to eat plants, and huge quantities of them. Even the plants can’t manage it unaided. Most scrape by, scavenging the limited amounts of nitrate in the soil released by decomposing vegetable matter, dung and dead bodies.

            The recycling is pretty efficient, but it’s not enough for a mushrooming human population, for every new person ties up kilos of nitrogen. Thunderstorms help a little, blasting the blue balls apart, but until the Germans sorted out how to break the nitrogen-nitrogen bond on an industrial scale just before the First World War, the only serious quantities of new nitrate came from two sources. There are friendly bacteria living in the roots of peas, beans and clover, who can do nitrogen fixation. And there is a mineral, saltpetre, found in small deposits around the world, and one huge deposit in Chile.

            Which brings me to History. Think about the late nineteenth century. Western Europe was following Britain down the industrial revolution trail, national economies could support ever increasing populations. But this meant that agriculture had to become more intense, that crop rotation could no longer furnish sufficient nitrate. Perhaps inevitably, but certainly unfortunately, the European population explosion coincided with a rising militarism, so that saltpetre which could have been used agriculturally was instead diverted off to be mixed with charcoal and sulphur to blow things up. Even the replacement of gunpowder by newer high explosives didn’t help, because TNT, Gelignite, picric acid and even the mercury fulminate detonator all require nitrogen fixed in one way or another.

            The military planners of the Great Powers prepared for war without considering this complication. A few Germans realised the consequences the nitrate shortage could have if there were a prolonged war - the Royal Navy could easily stop neutral ships from supplying the Reich. But even fewer listened - the campaign in France would be finished in weeks - the plan said so - and anyway, the British wouldn’t be so caddish. As a result, when Moltke narrowly failed to encircle Paris in 1914, and there wasn’t a Schlieffen Plan B, the war was already lost for Germany.

            Belatedly, a message was sent to the German far-east squadron, which was visiting Valparaíso at the time. The commander, Admiral Graf Spee, understood the urgency and set off immediately for the South Atlantic to try to capture the Falkland Islands, keep open the trade route from Chile, and maraud against British shipping with his capital ships, the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau. However, thanks to Intelligence reports, the Admiralty knew what was happening. A fleet was waiting for Graf Spee, and his big ships were sunk. (Those of you who shared my adolescent hobbies should now be thinking “Hang on. He’s making this up. That’s not what happened to the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau. But it’s quite true. Look up the Battle of the Falklands.)

            Thus it was that only BASF’s limited quantities of synthetic nitrate and the incompetence of the French and British generals kept the Germans going past 1916. As it happened they held out long enough to collapse the Russian Empire and give the Bolsheviks the start they needed. And in their desperation to break the blockade they succeeded in bring America into the war, thus creating the American armaments industry, and allowing Woodrow Wilson to dictate the Treaty of Versailles. Poland and its corridor. The League of Nations. The nitrogen-nitrogen bond has a lot to answer for.

            I’ll stop being didactic now. I should have put all this stuff in a preface, but you wouldn’t have read it. To return to my own story, I began to be aware of the astonishing impact that German chemists had on the world in the eighty years or so leading up to the Second World War. Not just in warfare and fertilisers, but in dyestuffs, in medicine, in the plastics revolution. I developed an interest in the nicer bits of German culture,  watched the BBC German language courses, wished we did it at school rather than French. I stopped building Airfix models and amassing double O scale armies. Peer pressure lost its attractions and I drifted away from the gang, concentrated on my A-levels. The Beatles split up. Alan Ball left Everton (the bastard - we didn’t win another title until the mid-eighties). The gang itself evaporated, as sex, drugs and rock and roll competed for attention with blowing things up and hanging around under lampposts.

            It’s the usual way with adolescent males. Their fixations are not usually threats to society, and even if they do turn nasty they tend not to last very long. But when I went off to college, or took vacation jobs, I began to meet inadequates who hadn’t shaken off their teenage compulsions. Most often these would be meek, timid types, who would drift off and join the Moonies or whatever. However, a handful of the more vociferous were clearly embittered by the desertion of their former cronies, and by association, with the whole well-balanced portion of the human race. They were generally political extremists, usually on the right. It worries me when these aggressively obsessed gain access to greater resources. When you find them in the police or the armed forces. When the minor soccer hooligan buys himself a filofax and mobile and starts organising riots in other countries. When people who know that ammonium nitrate can turn back into nitrogen, oxygen and water with a bang induce it to do so by the van load outside a public building in Oklahoma. When a small dark Austrian with a fetish about tall blond Germans latches on to a national feeling of betrayal.

            Soccer violence, paranoia about the power of the state, racial purity - none of these are exactly “mainstream” manias, and most of us would recognise them as dangerous, would hope to see them die out. At the other end of the spectrum the middle-aged biker, “Barmy Army” man, railway enthusiast or wargamer, living with his mum, may strike us as sad, but not as somebody whose behaviour ought to concern us.

            But in between we run into ethical swamps, areas of zealotry - patriotic, political or religious - that are often applauded by large sections of the population, maybe even by local majorities. Leon Trotsky, Michael Collins, Mahatma Ghandi, Ayatollah Khomeini, Nelson Mandela, Che Guevara, Pol Pot - you and I may feel that we know which of these were or are good men, which could only be described monsters, which will go down in History as ruthless pragmatists fighting for what they believed to be a good cause, but whole classes or countries may judge them differently.

            And give such a zealot some technological proficiency and the moral questions become even harder, for it is then often not their own actions that need to be judged, but the uses to which others put their inventions. Was an anti-Nazi physicist “right” to build the atom bomb? He could argue that it shortened the war, saved millions of lives, that it wasn’t his idea to use it against a civilian target. What about the patriotic chemist who developed gas warfare? He thought it would break the deadlock, stop the slaughter in the trenches.

            Even when the schoolboy inside seems well buried he can still dig his way to the surface at extreme moments. I have never been asked to work on chemical weapons, and I hope there is nothing that could induce me to do so now. But would I have felt the same in 1917 or 1945 or 1961? I don’t know, and I don’t wish to know. I can’t be sure because the old hobbies haven’t all withered away. I still keep an anxious eye on the Everton scores. I still have my stamps and coins, indeed I’ve added enormously to my collections. I love to visit Portmeirion and reminisce about The Prisoner. I can’t say that I’m still heavily into spy thrillers, but I should point out that I’m tall, blond and burly, so you can guess which role I’ve written for myself here. But it’s not a serious daydream, I’ll never be the Action Hero - I’m much too indolent, risk-averse. For this meticulously under-researched novel, I haven’t been knee deep in guano, signalling to an off-shore submarine, nor have I seen the need to visit Valparaíso or Hamburg to check if various scenes could have been possible. I have spent my entire career as an industrial chemist.

                It’s not a job that brings very many perks. Yes, there’s some foreign travel, but it‘s typically, and predictably, to the centres of the chemical industry, to the international versions of Widnes and Middlesborough. But occasionally, at my employer’s expense, I have been able to explore some more attractive locations. Ninety nine percent in Western Europe, but no matter, for there’s still plenty that’s spectacular or picturesque. Most appositely, recent trips have taken me to various key locations for my story. Berlin was a bonus away job, a conference rather than a customer visit, so I could take time for sight-seeing. Highly pleasurable were several visits to an atmospheric, “Hotel du Lac” sort of place overlooking Lake Zurich. And for me there was a true pilgrimage, Heidelberg. Gloomy philosophers, famous chemists (even you lot must have heard of Bunsen, he of the burner), and a firework display over the Schloss, on a misty October evening,, that hit my mental rewind button  and prompted these reminiscences.

.

Oh the joys of free vanity publishing - you don't even need to finish the stuff you disseminate. I put the first chapter of this up a few days ago & thought I would put up the whole synopsis. I'll put chapter 2 up next week.

The story opens in Valparaíso, 1913. A German buyer is found strangled near the docks. Investigations show that he had been attempting to buy up the whole of that year’s production of Chilean nitrate for explosives, and inducing the producers to default on contracts with the British. Known for loitering around the docks after dark, he had last been seen in a waterside bar chatting to a tall, blond, heavily built waiter who spoke fluent German. The waiter had since disappeared.

            We then move to Zurich, 1915. Otto Löhne, a German chemist and pacifist socialist is sitting out the First World War. He reads about the suicide of Rosa Gold. Her husband, Felix, Jewish but a fierce German nationalist, was becoming a war hero, thanks to the “Gold Process” for making nitrate synthetically. This was keeping Germany in the war, in spite of the British blockade starving Germany of Chilean nitrate. Gold had been a friend and mentor of Löhne, and unknown to Felix, Rosa (also a pacifist and socialist) and Otto had briefly been lovers. A few weeks later, Otto reads about the German use of poison gas on the Somme. Gold had been instrumental in this, and Otto surmises that it was this that prompted Rosa’s suicide.

            Charles Grant, a civil servant in the British Board of Trade, is approached in 1919 by representatives of Empire Chemicals, who are looking for help in acquiring details of the “Gold Process” for making nitrate for explosives. He remembers his old Cambridge friend, Martin Fisher, who was born in Germany, spoke the language like a native, and who had gone back to Heidelberg to study for a doctorate in chemistry. Martin had been in Naval Intelligence before and during the war, and had apparently made a name for himself, but was now unemployed.

            By now Löhne has returned to Germany and invented a process for making artificial rubber. His company is bought out by the expanding Deutsche Farbstoffe. On the board is Felix Gold. Otto and Felix are barely on speaking terms, because of Otto’s guilt about his affair with Rosa, Fritz’s criticisms of Otto’s pacifism (he calls it “cowardice”), and Otto’s condemnation of poison gas.

            A rising star in Deutsche Farbstoffe is Martin Fischer. Otto had known him by sight when they had been PhD students together in Heidelberg - tall, blond, heavily built. Initially Otto watches his progress with grudging admiration, but begins to become suspicious when first the secrets of the “Gold Process”, and then his own process for making artificial rubber reach the hands of their main British competition. Fischer had been particularly inquisitive about the rubber synthesis. However, Otto can’t bring himself to tell Gold about his suspicions.

            When the Nazis come to power, Fischer quickly joins the party, and becomes the Government Liaison Officer, tying the company closely to the Nazis and establishing them as sole suppliers to the Wermacht of many key raw materials.

            He then engineers Gold’s removal from the board, because of his Jewishness. Löhne, to his later shame, fails to protect him. Soon after, Gold, in spite of official obstruction, manages to leave the country. Fischer then turns on Löhne himself, pushing him into a non-executive role because of his “un-German” activities in the First War.

            Grant is also keeping a close eye on Martin’s career. We become aware that Grant is a homosexual, and also a communist, recruiting young, bright Cambridge undergraduates to the party. We begin to wonder about Martin’s sexual and political leanings.

            Ignoring Löhne’s objections Fischer concentrates all the company’s production of explosives, synthetic fuel and synthetic rubber on to one huge site. When Allied bombers destroy the site in 1944, the war is effectively lost for Germany.

            In the mean time, Fischer has been ordered to set up a poison gas facility near Auschwitz, using Jewish slave labour. The gases are for military purposes, but also for use against their own people in the camp.

            In 1945 Fischer is arrested by the Russians. In 1946 Grant visits him in his cell in Nuremberg. Shortly after the visit, Fischer is found dead in his cell, having taken cyanide. The motives remain unclear - blackmail or pressure by Grant? Shame about what went on at Auschwitz?

                Otto learns about Martin’s death (and also Gold’s) when he bumps into his old professor from Heidelberg, a Jew who had also lost his job through pressure from Fischer. The professor tells Otto that Martin Fisher (without the “c”) was half English. The professor had guessed what was going on after he and Gold had been sacked. The authorities had tried to stop them leaving the country - they knew too much. It was Martin who got them the papers they needed to leave for England with all their families and all their belongings.

Unpublished. At one time I was hoping to write a sort of war-time thriller, called "Fixation" loosely based on the careers of Haber, Bosch and Staudinger. I only wrote three and a half chapters before my attention wandered off, and I wasn't particularly happy with chapter 3. However, I rather liked chapter 1. Here it is.

Valparaíso August 1913

 Inspector Castejón sipped his coffee and stared out of the window. On a fine day he could see down to the port. He would waste hours watching the ships come and go and daydreaming about far-off places. He had never left Chile, but his son was in the Navy and told him tales of Sydney and San Francisco, Ecuador and Easter Island. Today, however, the driving rain made it a day for working. Not that he had very much to do. It had been a quiet morning so far, the sort he preferred. At his age, and with his limited political connections, he was unlikely to advance his career any further, so there was no point in pining for high-profile cases, or looking for unnecessary work. He closed his office door and opened his newspaper.

            Nothing very new. Record sales of nitrate again. More rumblings of war in Europe. Good. The two were probably connected. If the British and the Germans, the French and the Russians wanted to blow each other up, Chile would be happy to sell them the saltpetre for their gunpowder. The main thing was not to be drawn into the conflict. To keep his son’s little ship from being blown out of the water by the Dreadnoughts. To be able to carry on supplying both sides. He was turning his attention to the crossword when there was a knock. He put his paper away.

            “Come!”

            A breathless, dripping runner handed him a damp note. It was from the policeman at the docks. Castejón sighed as he read it. So much for his quiet day. Still he couldn’t complain. For a busy port Valparaiso had been mercifully free from international incidents. Maybe the occasional sailor would jump ship, or an American prospector returning from the mountains with samples for the assay office would disappear. Nothing he couldn’t file away after a cursory investigation by one of his men. Nothing to worry the politicians. But a German on a diplomatic passport, floating in the harbour, apparently strangled, would soon set the telegraph machines rattling. And he would have to handle this one himself.

            The runner was waiting for a reply. The Inspector scribbled a letter to his boss and another to the German Embassy.

            “Don’t go back to the waterfront - I’ll go myself. Take these into town.”

            The runner scowled and looked meaningfully out of the window. Castejón ignored him, but wondered if he should take a carriage himself? Why not? A case like this could support a few expenses.

*

            The corpse had been taken to the fish market. Castejón looked at the short, fat body, still wet and dressed in a frock coat, stretched out on a slab. A scarf was tied tightly around the neck, the face was black, eyes and tongue protruded. He grimaced and looked away quickly. Javier, the young, enthusiastic constable, was now standing to attention nearby. He directed the inspector’s attention to the contents of the victim’s pockets which he had arranged neatly on the next counter. The passport had been kept in a leather wallet, so that the name, while smudged, was legible - Herr Dr. Greiner. The wallet also contained a bundle of banknotes, and the victim had been carrying plenty of coins, even some gold and silver. A pity. A robbery would have been so simple. Should he split the cash with the constable, and close the case? Tempting, but no. Had the victim been a Chilean there wouldn’t have been a problem, but it would be difficult to bury this case. Better do it properly.

            “Do we know anything about him, constable?”

            “A little, sir. He spent a lot of time around the port, mostly in and out of shipping offices. But he also liked to stay in the area after hours, if you know what I mean. Visited most of the bars from time to time. Found trade most evenings by all accounts.”

            “Where was he last night?”

            “I don’t know that yet, sir. I’ll start asking around.”

            “Do that. And get the body taken to the mortuary. I think I’ll visit the German Embassy. Find out what his business was.”

*

            The embassy could not have been less helpful. At first they tried to refuse him entry. He knew he couldn’t force his way in, but he also recognised that if he took this higher they would have to speak to him sooner or later. He stood his ground. Eventually a junior official was found who spoke Spanish. He insisted that Castejón did not need to know Greiner’s role in Chile:

            “Inspector, I must stress that this is a confidential trade matter, but I can assure you that it is not in any way prejudicial to Chile’s interests. We have discussed the issue with your government. I’m sorry. If you are unhappy I suggest you take it up with your superiors. In the mean time you should concentrate on finding the murderer, and not probe into matters that do not concern you.”

            “But if I don’t know who his contacts were, how can I possibly trace the killer?”

            “Inspector, you can be sure that this is nothing to do with legitimate commercial relationships. Perhaps you should be asking questions at the British Embassy rather than here.”

            “Why do you say that?”

            As if aware that he had already said too much, the official laughed the remark off, and wished him good day.

*

            Castejón thought he would accept the German’s advice, talk to his boss, explain his difficulties and then see if the British knew anything. The Commissioner was sympathetic:

            “It can’t be helped, Eduardo. The Ambassador has already spoken to the minister, requesting that we don’t probe too deeply into Greiner’s affairs. Business affairs, that is. His extramural activities are a different matter. Still, I would like to know the background to all this myself. Talk to some of the shippers. If you’re discreet, I’ll support you.”

            The British Embassy was delighted to talk to him. He was introduced to a much more senior figure, who explained, through an interpreter, that he couldn’t speak a word of Spanish. Castejón wondered at this, but let it pass. The diplomat expressed horror at the incident, but maintained that he had never heard of the unfortunate Herr Dr. Greiner.

            “Would you care for some coffee, Inspector?”

            “Thank you. I would love some.” Castejón spoke a few words of English and was pleased to have the chance to show them off. He was in no hurry. Although he was beginning to suspect that he was wasting his time here, there was another consideration. If he hung around much longer, he might be treated to lunch.

            The Englishman waved away the servant who had brought in the coffee and poured himself, thinking aloud as he did so:

            “A trade delegate, you say? I’m surprised we never met him. All I can suggest, and I’m sure you have thought of this yourself, is that you speak to some of the shipping offices down at the docks. Try, say, Sitges and Sitges. We’ve always found them most co-operative. Mention my name if there’s any problem. In fact, you could do me a small favour and remind them about a certain railway deal that we have been discussing. He’ll know what I mean. And do let me know how you get on.”

            Why did he select that particular company? It was unlikely to be insignificant - from the Inspector’s experience nothing a diplomat said was without significance. No doubt this man knew a lot more about the case than he was prepared to admit. After a few more desultory questions Castejón thanked his host for his time and trouble.

            “Not at all. Sorry we couldn’t be of more assistance. Now, I see it’s almost one. Would you care to take some lunch with us before you leave?”

            “Thank you very much. Most kind.”

*

            The clerk at the Sitges’ offices had been reluctant to disturb his employers. They were busy. The inspector knew well what “busy” meant shortly after lunch. He would much have preferred to have been “busy” in his own office with the lamp out and his feet on his desk. But the commissioner would expect to see some progress on the case. He insisted. Eventually the younger Mr Sitges appeared and shook Castejón’s hand:

            “Inspector, thank you for your note. How can I help you? No. Let me make a few guesses. You want to talk about poor Dr Greiner, and our British friends, having treated you to one of their excellent lunches, suggested that I might know something. Yes?”

            Castejón caught himself yawning and smiled: “You’re very perceptive. Thank you for seeing me at such an inconvenient time.”

            “Not at all.” He showed the inspector into an extremely well-appointed boardroom. “Take a seat. I have to say straight away that I know nothing of the unfortunate man’s death.”

            “For the moment, I’m more interested in his life. What his business was, who he saw regularly.”

            “Well, even there I’m not sure how much I should tell you. Our dealings with him were very confidential.”

            “The attaché was sure you would be able to help me. And he also asked me mention some railway business.”

            Sitges scowled momentarily: “He brought that up, did he? Very well. I’ll tell you what I can. Herr Greiner promised to be an extremely good customer. Any ship we could find, he could fill. Our competitors tell the same story. He even tried to induce us all to break contracts with our British friends. I know that some of the others did so. With all the money he had on his person, I’m surprised he wasn’t attacked earlier.”

            “It doesn’t appear that he was robbed. His wallet was full of banknotes.”

            Sitges raised his eyebrows, clearly astonished: “They didn’t even take his letters of credit?”

            “Excuse me?”

            “He couldn’t have carried all the cash he would have needed for these deals. He used letters of credit worth hundreds of thousands of marks.”

            Castejón felt slightly sick. Everything he heard made the case more complicated. It wasn’t clear now if Greiner had been robbed or not. And if so, how much had been taken? Worse still, it would all mean more work. At least with cash you could forget about trying to find it again. But letters like that would be traceable. He would have to go back to the German embassy. Before that, however, he needed to know more about Greiner’s business.

            “What was he loading the ships with? Saltpetre?”

            “Officially I don’t know, but realistically what else could it be? You’ll need to confirm this with the producers, but it was my clear impression, from the gossip on the waterfront, that our late friend had been busy buying up every last barrel of nitrate. Offering a very good price, maybe double what the French and British would pay.”

            “Why should he want to do that?”

            “I should have thought that was obvious. You know about all this trouble brewing in Europe?”

            “Of course.”

            “Then picture what will happen the moment war is declared. The British Navy will sit out there..” he nodded in the direction of the Pacific, “making sure that nothing is bound for Germany. And there will be even more ships in the North Atlantic, making sure nothing gets in through the back door, Italy or wherever. The Germans won’t get another gram of saltpetre. And without it their guns will soon go quiet.”

             Castejón took a deep breath, sighed. This was much bigger than he was prepared for. No wonder the Minister had warned them off probing too deeply. And no wonder the German diplomat had blurted out something about the British being involved. There was certainly a motive. No, he wouldn’t make any confirmatory enquiries amongst the producers. He thanked Sitges for his help and left, hoping to spend an hour or so being “busy” in his office.

            Unfortunately, his plans were upset by Constable Javier who was waiting outside the Sitges building. Castejón cursed to himself. How had he traced him here? The man was too good. Never mind, no doubt he had something important to report on the case.

            Indeed he had: “I’ve found the bar Greiner was drinking in last night, sir.”

            “Excellent. Did you discover who he was talking to?”

            “Yes sir. The mystery deepens, sir. Most of the time he was flirting with a new waiter, who has now disappeared himself.”

            “Good work, constable.” Javier beamed. “You had better take me there immediately.”

*

            The proprietor, while not unhelpful, was clearly uncomfortable. Castejón sympathised - having your customers strangled by your waiters wouldn’t be the best for business. He asked him for drinks for Javier and himself, paid with a large denomination bill, and suggested he kept the change. Suitably mollified, the barman was more forthcoming. The waiter in question, known to him only as Martín, was a German, but spoke fluent Spanish.

            German? Castejón wondered whether that was good or bad? Good probably. Additional complications, but it made it more likely that the embassy would acquiesce in a cover-up. Still, he had better ask a few more questions.

            “How did he end up here?”

            “Here in Valparaíso, or here in my bar?”

            “Both”

            “He said he was born here - his mother was Chilean. His father was captain in the German merchant fleet, and Martín joined up as soon as he was old enough. Apparently he jumped ship last year, didn’t say why, and has been doing casual work ever since. He was drinking here one night a couple of weeks ago. Ran up a substantial bill which he couldn’t pay, so he offered to work off his debt. He did a good job, seemed very trustworthy, so I kept him on. Look where my generosity has got me. Pendejo.”

            “Can you describe him?”

            “Typical German. Tall, heavily built, blond hair.”

            “And what happened last night?”

            “I wasn’t here all night - I thought the bar was in safe hands - so I can only repeat what my regular customers told me. Greiner obviously took a fancy to Martín. Kept buying him drinks, and chatting away in German at every opportunity. Greiner left about eleven, with some parting words to his new friend, but nobody had any idea if they were arranging to meet later or not. The first I knew of all this was this morning, when Martín didn’t show up, and the regulars started jumping to conclusions.”

            Excellent. The case was as good as buried. A token search, preferably fruitless, for Martín, then let the file gather dust. The embassy wouldn’t want to pursue the matter any further, particularly when he dropped hints that he knew what Greiner’s business had been.

*

            Late the next morning, as he was writing up his report, Castejón received a note from the German ambassador, politely requesting a visit at his earliest convenience. He smiled. Just before lunch would be very convenient.

            No junior official this time, of course. He was welcomed by the ambassador in person.

            “Inspector, good of you to call. The commissioner has told me all about your excellent work. Congratulations on solving the case so quickly. I hope you soon apprehend this man, Martín.”

            “We’re making every effort, Excellency.”

                “I’m sure you are, and we’ll help you in any way we can. There’s just one slightly confusing matter. We’ve checked our records, and no German ship reported any crew missing in Valparaíso last year.”