Unsafe Deposit

Copyright © 2016 J.E. Kellenberger

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 978 1785895 623

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

In memory of

RONALD ERIC RAVEN

1917-1943

City of London School for Boys scholar

Warrant Officer 1st Class

Royal Army Ordnance Corps

Prisoner of War 1941-1943

With thanks to Rosemary and Hilary for reading the original manuscript.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Prologue

1936

Despite the time of year, late spring, it was cold in the prefab hut close to the wharf where the cross-Channel ferry had docked in Dover. Max sat across the small, bare table top from the austere-looking immigration officer. He was a middle-aged man with greying hair and receding hairline. His back was ramrod straight and, in true British tradition, his upper lip was equally stiff. He was an Oxford-educated senior Home Office official and knew how to handle young men like Max.

‘Is your maternal language German?’ he enquired calmly.

‘Yes,’ replied Max hesitantly, trying to express with gestures that the only word in the sentence he really understood was German.

‘Do you need a translator?’ the immigration officer went on.

‘Yes,’ replied Max, again unsure as to the true nature of the question.

‘Mein Kollege spricht Deutsch ich wird ihn beschwören.’

They sat for some moments in complete silence while awaiting the translator who the immigration officer had summoned by the only telephone in the draughty hut. A third chair was drawn up to the wooden table when she arrived, a lady from the Swiss Embassy who had been seconded to the Home Office to help with the growing number of asylum seekers arriving on British soil from Nazi Germany. With no more than a nod confirming the arrival of the translator he continued the interview.

‘Is it your intention to seek asylum in the United Kingdom?’

‘Yes,’ replied Max. Despite his youth he had an air of haughtiness and now that he understood the question he was able to reply without any hint of deference.

‘Do you have any identity papers?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Max as if the immigration officer should know that he was an important personage. ‘I can tell you who I am!’

‘I’m sure you can, Sir, but I need evidence. Do you have any official documents which show your name, address and date of birth?’

There followed a long pause. A change of attitude was necessary, Germanic arrogance would serve no useful purpose on these shores. To survive he would need to adapt and he would have to do so sooner rather than later.

‘None,’ he replied meekly. ‘I escaped with nothing.’

Chapter One

Initial Thoughts

2010

It wasn’t the usual type of French open-air market selling fresh produce from the dozens of farms in the vicinity but a specialised market of non-consumable merchandise, goods that had started life in shops and fairs but had failed to sell for one reason or another and had eventually trickled down to their terminal stage to be sold at a hugely discounted price or be dumped ignominiously. Tommy knew where all these types of markets were located and the one just outside of Belfort in the Haute Saône region of north-east France had been a regular on his schedule for many years. He was steeped in market trading having since a small boy accompanied and later helped his father Stan who made his living trading in the market towns of outer London and its provinces. He’d learned a lot of tricks from his dad and together with his best friend Rolf he had mastered the knack of selling unwanted goods. The boys’ scam, for that was what it was, had yielded over the course of several years two very nice nest eggs which each was now using according to his own particular philosophy for the conduct of his future working life.

They’d first met as twelve year olds at a grammar school when both had won scholarships. By their classmates with middle-class and professional family backgrounds they were regarded as oddballs: Rolf the immigrant’s son and Tommy, a rough diamond with a working-class upbringing. This had inevitably thrown them together, spending many hours in each other’s company discussing everything under the sun. It had started as a friendship borne of need but would develop over the coming years into one of profound depth and total trust, a partnership of equals with Rolf the instigator and Tommy the adapter. It suited their personalities. Rolf was a closet-introvert and most of the early thrust in his ambition was fuelled by resentment towards his parents; caused, he blamed, by his disabled sister. But he had qualities, often hidden from the casual observer that endeared him to Tommy. He was hardworking, intelligent, interesting with an original slant on life and, where Tommy was concerned, loyal to him to a fault and Rolf had long ago conceded that Tommy’s description of him as driven was both fair and accurate. They shared the same sense of humour, it was never boring being with him. He complemented perfectly Tommy’s easygoing, gregarious and cheerful nature and although one mostly led and the other mainly followed it proved to be the strength of their friendship, not a weakness. From a young age Tommy had a need to earn money, his father’s work bringing in only sufficient to meet the family’s basic needs and any treats he wanted he had to fund himself. For Rolf too finance was an important issue for although he received pocket money from his grandparents Rolf had, with a maturity way beyond his age, already identified what he needed to achieve with his savings. Whereas Rolf had grandiose plans regarding his family’s clothing manufacturing company Tommy’s were far more modest. Despite his excellent academic achievements he had spurned the chance of a university education preferring to remain in his own working-class milieu; his ambition to trade in his own right a deep-seated goal but where his father appeared content with low-end products Tommy’s ambition was to go up-market and sell cars from his own plush showroom. His nest egg had given him sufficient capital to rent a small commercial property which he renovated. Situated in a great location it had plenty of hard standing for second-hand cars. From the outset the business had performed well, giving Tommy little cause to worry about failure, it was a triumph for the business plan he had honed and perfected with Rolf during their schooldays.

Today, his trading day would differ from the norm. He would be packing up his stall mid-afternoon in order to drive the relatively short distance across the border into Switzerland to meet Rolf in Basle. Rolf had asked him to act as a courier, an assignment which would take him to Vaduz, the capital of Liechtenstein. And later, after completion of Rolf’s task, there would be his assignation with Jane. He could hardly wait. They met up that evening in a small but smart hotel in the city centre. After dinner, in the soft twilight of the late evening, they strolled along the banks of the Rhine deep in conversation. They had slipped back effortlessly into the frankness and trust they had shared in their teens despite their increasingly infrequent get-togethers as their working and social lives took them in different directions.

‘So what’s the reason behind you moving the whole contents of your safe deposit to Liechtenstein?’ asked Tommy. ‘I know about the pouch obviously but why the cash and, indeed, the equities too?’

‘It’s all down to the new EU laws relating to offshore banking,’ replied Rolf, ‘in its wisdom the EU has extended its tentacles beyond the frontiers of the Eurozone and wrapped them in a vice-like grip around the throats of some independent countries including Switzerland.’

‘And…’ pressed Tommy.

‘It’s a dry and technical story but the basics are this,’ continued Rolf. ‘Although the European Union was their largest trading partner, the Swiss electorate voted against joining the EU. But as continued trade was still essential, Switzerland negotiated some special bi-lateral treaties which had the effect of making a large chunk of the EU law applicable in Switzerland too. When the global economics started going pear-shaped in 2008 there was international pressure on Switzerland to provide information about bank accounts held in Switzerland by foreign nationals. This finally resulted in 2010 with individual agreements with various countries for disclosure of assets held in numbered accounts by their own citizens and hence the move!’

‘I see but why Liechtenstein?’

‘Chatting with a business acquaintance one day I learned for the first time about the new Anglo-Swiss tax agreement that is due to come into force in January 2013 and when I delved into the subject on the internet I found that there were two options available to me,’ continued Rolf, ‘I could either pay an assessment of unpaid taxes based on a sliding scale of the average value of my assets over the years with a minimum rate payable of twenty-one percent or choose the option of the Liechtenstein disclosure facility. There are advantages and disadvantages for both. If you chose the former then any tax you would pay would be paid anonymously so your name is not given to HMRC but by the same token you cannot prove to them that you have paid the tax. With the latter option the disadvantage is that you are made known to them but they do send you a certificate showing you have paid. Also, with the latter option the person or party disclosing the information to the Swiss and British tax authorities is not liable to criminal investigation, an important point bearing in mind that most of the portfolio grew out of the money we made from the scam!’

Deep in thought they hadn’t noticed the streets becoming deserted as the hour hand passed eleven o’clock and the good burghers of Basle prepared for their early rise the following morning to be at their office desks punctually just before eight o’clock. They made their way back to the hotel for a nightcap in the hotel’s tiny and intimate bar where several visitors were still enjoying what remained of the day.

‘I have a confession to make to you Tommy,’ said Rolf quietly. ‘I’ve always told you everything and been happy to do so but I’ve held something back and I don’t feel comfortable about it, so I want to put that right and now seems opportune.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s a long story but I guess you have the time to hear it, although we mustn’t forget that we have to be at the bank early tomorrow morning as my appointment is at eight-fifteen.’

‘I’m all ears,’ replied Tommy arching his eyebrows to show his full attention.

‘It’s about the Berghoffs really,’ started Rolf, ‘the Berghoffs and their land. My father escaped from Germany in the mid-1930s. Our family came from a region in the north-east that was known then as Prussia, where we can trace our roots back for several centuries. Well one day my father had a run-in with some members of the regime’s youth brigade, Prussian autocracy clashed with brown shirts. When Father called them thugs of low standing they brandished broken bottles in his face, he took to his heels and was lucky to escape their pursuit but he became a marked man. The Berghoffs were well known in the district and it wasn’t long before some Nazi officials were hammering on the family’s front door braying for his blood. He fled from the house via a servant’s door while my grandfather was arguing with the officials, running down and hiding in the cemetery at the bottom of the formal gardens from where he escaped into the nearby woods.’

Rolf paused for a moment to find the right words to give a concise account of what more he had to say.

‘Most of this you already know,’ he continued, ‘but this is what you don’t. My grandfather was fearful of the impending war and his own survival and just before he engaged the officials in delaying tactics he told my father very hurriedly about a family heirloom. It was, apparently, very valuable and had been handed down the line of male heirs over several centuries, always being kept hidden with only two people at any one time knowing of its existence and location, the current head of the family and his male heir. He made my father commit its location to memory and got him to promise to hand it down in his turn. He then removed his wristwatch, a timepiece of distinction made by a famous horologist, and slipped it on my father’s hand. They embraced and Father fled, he never saw his own father again.’

‘I know the watch,’ said Tommy gravely. ‘I admired it on Max’s wrist and now on yours.’

‘Father had the back inscribed to remind him of his heritage. You must have seen him flip it face side down on its expandable strap and run a finger over the inscription. He was always doing it, a habit he couldn’t seem to resist. I felt so proud when Father passed it down to me on our return from the homeland trip. It’s my only souvenir of my grandfather,’ sighed Rolf. ‘I never met him.’

‘What happened next?’ asked Tommy knowing there was more to come.

‘Nothing for many years, nothing in fact until the Berlin Wall was ripped down in 1990. Our homeland was in the new East Germany and travel there wasn’t permitted until the Ulbricht regime was toppled. My father told me about the heirloom, or prize or whatever it was, shortly afterwards suggesting that we go there together to find any remains of our old family estate and to see if we could recover the object. He’d fled Germany more than fifty years previously and had no information about any remaining family members. He assumed all had either perished in the fierce fighting around Berlin at the end of the war or were dead simply due to old age.’

‘So you went there.’

‘Yes,’ answered Rolf, ‘even though I didn’t care a jot about the heirloom.’

‘Because you sensed the possibility of building a better relationship with your father,’ anticipated Tommy with keen insight.

‘He’s getting on and all the resentment I felt towards him since childhood now seems stupid.’

‘I’m glad you did, it was the right thing to do. I’d hate to be on bad terms with my parents,’ said Tommy reflectively. ‘So did you find the prize?’

‘We flew into Tempelhof airport and hired a car, a Trabant! Remember those?’

‘Worst cars in the world they were reputed to be. Tinny and always breaking down. You needed a sense of humour to drive one of those.’

‘Couldn’t get anything else,’ recalled Rolf. ‘We drove off in the direction of Magdeburg hoping that we could get there in an afternoon but the car couldn’t handle a sustained drive and we had to keep stopping to let the engine cool down. The countryside was drab and forlorn and the few buildings we passed were rundown, people were shabbily dressed and seemed uninterested when we enquired about a place to spend the night. Next day we motored on, my father guiding us on instinct alone until he spotted a low range of hills, one with a plateau, and bordered by a forest of pines. He seemed to recall it from his days out hiking with school friends. From there he found it possible to work out the southern extremity of our estate even though there was no sign of buildings just areas of rubble. It was his instinct again that led us to the cemetery and although mostly intact it was in a neglected state overgrown with grasses and brambles and with many headstones broken or lying on the ground. It took some time to find the correct grave, my great grandmother’s, as the headstone was in two pieces lying inscription side down. I’d taken a trowel with me and as no one was around Father directed me to scrape away at the indentation in the soil caused by the weight of the headstone and within a few minutes we heard a sharp noise as the trowel came into contact with something metallic. It was a small box with surprisingly little rust although when I tried to open it with the tip of the trowel it put up stout resistance. We were back seated in the car by this time and Father took out the content of the box which was wrapped in what had probably been an oily cloth but was now dry and stiff. As we pulled it off, it tore and shredded as if it didn’t want to reveal its matter. Neither of us knew what to expect, even Father had never seen it before but when we did we were both left speechless, gobsmacked. It was wondrous.’

‘What was it?’ asked Tommy eagerly.

‘I want to tell you Tommy but I can’t. My father asked me to promise there and then that I would respect his wish for me to try to continue the family tradition. Also, not only is it probably very valuable but our family may have acquired it as a prize of war or even stolen or looted it as there were lots of foreign armies fighting in that part of Prussia in the 1700s. I wouldn’t want to burden you unnecessarily.’

‘I see your point,’ accepted Tommy, ‘and did you hide it?’

‘I did but from the moment I held it in my hand I worried about what to do with it. Initially, for a few months, I kept it in a lockable drawer in my office desk. Later I moved it to a small recess under the eaves in the attic at home but neither hiding place seemed secure. I worried that in the event of my sudden death from, say, a road traffic accident, if it was found Sylvia and our daughters would be held guilty of holding a precious object which did not belong to them. Also, as you know, I don’t have a direct male heir. Daniel as my nephew is the closest. So not only did I have to find a long-term safe hiding place but I also had to find a way for Daniel to find it in the event of my untimely death. I settled on a cryptic puzzle which I think Daniel alone could solve.’

‘If I was a betting man, which I’m not except at the dogs,’ said Tommy, ‘that’s what I’d bet on you doing, something cryptic. It’s the way your devious mind works!’

They both laughed. Tommy had always called his friend devious and it was an epithet that Rolf accepted with a certain amount of pride.

‘It was harder than I thought though,’ explained Rolf. ‘I searched the internet for ideas, most were ridiculous, but it did trigger a line of thinking that brought me to a neat solution and I secreted the prize accordingly. I then used the fact that Daniel had always expressed the desire to join WareWork after university and as soon as he started with us as a trainee, without his awareness I guided him through the steps he will need to take to solve the riddle and pointed specifically to the answers. Hopefully I will remain fit and healthy into old age and will be able to pass on the information to him directly then without the need for any cloak and dagger stuff but if I die prematurely then I feel confident that Daniel will be able to work out the answers from the puzzle that I have put in a small, white tube and which you will put in the safe deposit in Liechtenstein. The new account there will be totally legal so I shall bequeath the portfolio and safe deposit contents to Daniel in an updated will that I shall lodge with our family solicitor.

‘And that’s my task tomorrow or should I say today,’ said Tommy sleepily, ‘we’d better get some kip as it’s already past one o’clock.’

The following morning in the large marble-floored foyer of the bank on Aeschenstrasse Rolf gave Tommy the letter of authority for the bank in Vaduz where he had already set up an account and a safe deposit facility. Next he handed him the cash from the closed safe deposit box now stuffed in two brown envelopes and which Tommy immediately put in the rucksack that he had brought along for the purpose. He then gave Tommy the soft drawstring pouch containing the marbles reminding him that it was this item that had to be handed over to the blackmailer’s representative. Finally, he put the small white tube into Tommy’s outstretched hand telling him again that he should put it in the new safe deposit.

‘I’ve arranged a hire car for your journey back to Basle as I don’t want to give the blackmailer’s agent the chance of following you,’ Rolf told Tommy, ‘you must pick it up at the train station in Buchs and hand it back at the airport.’

‘Fine,’ said Tommy zipping up all the rucksack’s outer pockets after he had carefully placed the pouch and tube in a plastic bag before positioning it in one of them.

‘You’re looking much smarter than normal,’ said an observant Rolf, looking closely at Tommy’s smart casual outfit and trendy spectacle frames. ‘She must be a very special person as you don’t usually go to so much trouble for a new girlfriend.’

‘It’s all part of my disguise as a special courier,’ joked Tommy in his normal engaging way, ‘but you’re dead right Jane is special and we’re spending a couple of days together after this assignment.’

They parted with a warm hug, Rolf left for the airport and Tommy walked to the railway station. Neither of them had noticed the tall, thin man standing outside the bank who followed Tommy to the station and when Tommy changed trains in Zürich and boarded the intercity destined for Vienna so did Paul.

Tommy sat back in a comfortable corner seat watching the beautiful countryside whistle past as the train sped smoothly towards Austria. His thoughts soon drifted to Jane. He’d met her quite by chance at the dog racing. She’d been with two girlfriends on a day out shopping firstly at the biggest mall in the South-East where they had shopped till they dropped followed by an evening at the dogs at Crayford Stadium just up the A2 from the Blue Water mall. They were all upper crust, la-di-da with posh accents, not a bit like him but he’d overheard them talking in the restaurant and realised that they didn’t have the race programme and he’d offered his to Jane. One of his own dogs, Miss Little, was racing that evening and he had suggested that they wouldn’t waste their money if they bet on it. Jane had quipped that it had better be a winning tip! Later, she had spotted him trackside and had thanked him as they had all placed bets on his dog. They got chatting while her two girlfriends were at the bar enjoying their last gin and tonics of the day, Jane was the chauffeur apparently and needed to stay sober as she would have to drive them back safely to Winchester. He started going to the dogs as a young lad accompanying his father who was an ardent fan he had told her and he currently had two dogs in training in kennels near the Crayford track. He’d asked her if she had enjoyed the new experience of dog racing and she said that she was surprised that she had. Up close and personal where you can smell the grease paint was how she had described being trackside. He had suggested that she might like to watch a heat of the Greyhound Derby run at Wimbledon Stadium later in the year and if she did he’d be happy to be her escort. He’d given her his business card hoping that she would ring but never really expecting that she would, but she had. The stadium was buzzing with activity that cool evening under a starlit sky when Tommy greeted her at the entrance with a beaming smile. They shook hands warmly and studied the race card while having an aperitif. With their bets placed they had retreated to the restaurant to watch the thrills and spills of each race. Despite his smart casual attire and new close-cropped haircut that was currently de rigueur for bald men Tommy felt tongue-tied, his path with sophisticated ladies from deepest Hampshire having not yet been crossed. His normal line of cheeky, cheerful, inconsequential patter seemed inappropriate and it had been Jane who had sensed his hesitancy and got the ball rolling with a dreadful pun about his route into second-hand car sales. It had made them laugh and relax. He had related how he had started his early working life helping his father on the market stalls but had seen how hard he’d had to work to make ends meet that very early on in his career he took the decision to sell a high-end product and quality cars was it. And he’d done well in the boom period leading up to the millennium when punters were flush with cash and upgraded to classier Marques. He now had two established showrooms and had recently opened a third. Nobody should knock stall holding, he had told her and although it would never appear on any list of glamorous jobs it was a trade that dated back many centuries. In the deep freeze of January 1684 stalls had been set up on the Thames and in longevity it was almost as old as prostitution! She’d asked him if he was married and he’d said a little dejectedly that he was still a bachelor although it wasn’t by choice, he had just never met the right person with whom to spend the rest of his life. He’d quickly turned the tables and asked about her situation.

Jane lived in Winchester and was married with a daughter, her husband worked in import/export in the City but his true passion lay in the arts: antiques, paintings, sculpture, you name it he loved it. He had funded their daughter’s antiques shop and regularly went on trips around the country to craft and antiques fairs looking for stock for the shop. He was a good man she had said without any real enthusiasm but he wanted his pound of flesh. When Tommy had enquired if it was the same pound of flesh as in Shylock’s speech in The Merchant of Venice she had replied that in Arthur’s case it was the real-world equivalent where he maintained her in a first-class lifestyle and in return he expected her to be at his beck and call. Her designated role was that of a pampered housewife, one who was expected to be ever ready for her man, she was his status symbol and it had become very irksome. Their marriage, she explained, had really been borne more of convenience than of love, she had the status but little money, he had the money but not the true status despite his portrayal as coming from a middle-class background. But their marriage in many ways had proved surprisingly successful as Arthur turned out to be a considerate husband and caring father.

It was fine she had said when her daughter was at home but now that she was married Jane felt at a loose end and a little lonely and was beginning to realise that the people with whom she socialised were more acquaintances than friends. She was beginning to notice that some of her girlfriends were now working ladies, some even doing professional jobs. Jane had become increasingly discontented with her lifestyle of apparent endless pleasure. She wanted to do something useful and needed a goal. She knew Arthur would never countenance her working for money so it had to be some sort of voluntary work, one that would give her satisfaction and bring a sense of worthiness to her life. With a family history of glaucoma she had contacted the district branch of an eye-related charity offering to help raise funds or provide transport to take people shopping. She also determined to do a basic bookkeeping course so that if ever a new treasurer was required she would be ready to fill the breach. He had escorted her back to Waterloo to catch the penultimate train home that evening and asked her to write down her mobile number on the back of his business card. She had thanked him for a wonderful evening. Standing close they looked intently into one another’s eyes. Jane moved to give Tommy a peck on the cheek but somehow landed on his lips. They were warm and inviting and neither party wanted the kiss to end. Tommy touched his lips gently remembering the feel of her lips on his. For her the shackles of married life, albeit velvet ones were sprung and she was free, for him the hope of love had become a genuine possibility. As he made his way back down the escalator to the underground he murmured the words of a poem he had had to learn by rote at school. The old order changeth yielding place to new… it was very appropriate.

When Rolf had asked him for a favour to be done in Switzerland Tommy’s first thoughts had gone to Jane. He knew he had to make the next move if their relationship was to continue and he wanted it to do so as he was fed up with being increasingly called a confirmed bachelor by his mates at the pub. Love had passed him by until this moment. He had had several relationships but none had lasted more than a few months and now what he really wanted, even at his late stage in life, was a wife and kids of his own. He knew he was no oil painting: bald, crooked nose and spectacles but appearances weren’t everything apparently and he hoped that his outgoing personality would triumph over his physical appearance. It was just two meetings and one phone call so far but Tommy had been thinking a lot about trying to find a way for them to meet again. Rolf had said that once the assignment was completed he would be free to stay on in Switzerland if he wished. He could keep the hire car for several days; he just had to deliver it back to Basle airport where Tommy had left his white van in the long-stay car park. Tommy knew he had to be bold. He crossed his fingers and hoped that Jane felt the same about him. With mounting excitement he had tapped out her mobile number and when she had answered he had asked her if she would like to join him in Switzerland for a couple of days. They would sample the renowned thermal waters of Baden, a spa town near Zürich and enjoy some good cuisine. They would share the same room if that was okay. It was very okay she had said and she would definitely find a way to come and Tommy had pressed the end call button with a trembling finger.

The ticket inspector interrupted his reverie and a tall, thin man walked down the central aisle towards the WC. Tommy’s thoughts turned to the blackmailer’s representative who would be standing just outside the railings of the Café Rosah in the main square at noon. He or she would be wearing a red baseball cap. Alighting at Buchs station Tommy caught the tramway for the short distance across the Rhein into Liechtenstein and walked the last hundred metres or so to the main square. He had ample time to attend to Rolf’s banking affairs before sauntering along to take an outdoor seat at the Café Rosah. It was a gorgeous day and he reflected on his wisdom of employing a full-time manager for his newest branch so freeing him up to take time off more easily whenever he needed. Crammed between the mountains of Austria and those of Switzerland Tommy sat back enjoying the stunning view and his glass of beer. He watched the English-speaking cycling group arrive and chain their bikes to the railings and waited for the red baseball cap to appear. All too soon its wearer appeared and Tommy made an unfortunate error.

Chapter Two

Back Chat

1936 – 2010

There was no period of adjustment for Rolf’s father when the authorities eventually allowed him to travel to London. Almost penniless except for the valuable watch which he swore he would never sell, his only family keepsake, he had to find work instantly, washing dishes and cleaning in various greasy spoon cafés in the East End. Later, he would find regular work as a waiter in an Oxford Street department store. One day, whilst serving a couple and their daughter at table, he remarked on the accent of the father when ordering and guessed correctly their origin as Swiss. Replying in German he immediately established a friendly rapport and over the coming weeks he saw them often. It was the start of a friendship with Esther, their daughter, which would blossom into love and then marriage. But with war looming ominously in spring 1939 Max and his new wife fled to Switzerland, fearful for Max’s physical safety should the Germans invade. They settled in Yverdon, a charming town in French-speaking Switzerland and with the help and expertise of one of Esther’s cousins and her husband they set up a small business manufacturing lace handkerchiefs. After the war, with business opportunities far greater in England they returned. Leicestershire with its historic links with the hosiery and textile industries was their area of choice and following a short search in the Market Harborough area of south-east Leicestershire they found a small bomb-damaged factory which the elderly owner let them buy for a song. His son and intended heir had been killed by the blanket bombing of the Midlands in 1941 and he had finally lost heart and simply wanted to sell up and move away. One end of the mostly brick structure had caved in when a bomb had fallen directly on the adjacent building and one of its chimneys had plunged onto the factory demolishing the gable end and leaving the building exposed to the elements. Neglect over the next few years had caused further damage to the fabric of the building but Max and Esther had noticed that the two large knitting machines housed at the other end of the factory appeared intact although very dirty and rather rusty. They decided to take a chance that they could get them running. With money tight and building materials scarce in post-war Britain Max and Esther had to rely on their own skills and hard work to turn the factory back into a productive unit knitting woollen socks in the early years and moving into cotton overalls when they could afford new machinery. Of the former building next door, bomb rubble long