Caught in time

By Michael Owino

In 1983 a car was burned in a village in Northern Germany. One person died and the culprit who was employed in a major German dairy was seriously injured. Could this have been a personal dispute or were there perhaps traces that needed to be covered up? Its pre-history started a good forty years previousl

• Language: English
• Publisher: CPH BOOK FACTORY
• Release date: Mar 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9788794430012

Book preview

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Foreword

Caught in Time

MICHAEL OWINO

Caught in Time

Translation by Oskar Andersen

2023 © Michael Owino Translation by Oskar Andersen

Publisher: CPH BOOK FACTORY

Dear reader.

This is the third edition of Caught in time .the first edition was published in 2016 in a Danish version and it immediately get attention from the readers and bloggers in Denmark .After two years it finally was translated into English and was first published international in 2019. It has since been published in different version on various platform.

The idea about this new re-release,is to make sure readers can get all three books in the: Raw Milk trilogy in a prober order.

Welcome to the first book Caught in time.

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Introduction

In 1983 a car was burnt in a village in Northern Germany. One person died and the culprit who was employed in a major Ger- man dairy was seriously injured. Could this have been a personal dispute or were there perhaps traces that needed to be covered up? Its pre-history started a good forty years previously. A division of German soldiers received an unusual assignment: to empty the Winter Palace in Leningrad of works of art and to send them to Germany. Hitler had plans to set up an impressive collection of art, which the Nazis had stolen at various locations around Europe. In the first instance, the works of art were hidden in an underground

bunker in a field near Munich.

In Berlin a museum inspector lost his job when his museum for modern art was closed, and he got by doing menial jobs. One day he is given a special assignment: to catalogue the stolen works of art for the new museum. He had no alternative but to say yes in order to put bread on the table. However, he plans a sophisticated revenge. But one day all things went wrong …

Seventy years later valuable jewels from the court of the Rus- sian Tsar turn up with the director for a large German company. Possibly this has something to do with a Dane who was involved in fakes until he disappeared without trace. The Danish police have been put on the case, but their German colleagues go to great lengths in order to avoid scandal..

With its many fine details, this book gives a remarkable insight into life during the Second World War, from soldiers who freeze in the Russian winter to ordinary people in Germany who try to live life in their own way. The reader is given a great deal of per- spective as well as the opportunity to postulate.

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Chapter 1

Northern Germany, 3 April 1983

The petrol fumes irritated his nose whilst he was emptying the first can. Using his right hand, he kept a firm grip on its handle while steadying himself with his left hand and leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He stood with one foot on

the car’s doorsill and his other foot on the ground. The front seats made of imitation leather with patterns in matching syn- thetic materials became blurred from the petrol. In the glow from the car’s interior light, he registered how the liquid was slowly absorbed into the seats and ended in dark stains on the grey carpet on the floor of the car. The dashboard was also splattered with petrol. Once the can was empty, he left it on the passenger seat. Johan stepped a couple of paces backwards, stretched his neck back and dropped his arms down towards his toes while staring up at the night sky. He took it all in with a very deep breath. A feeling of nausea crept over him. His working gloves, his khaki trousers, his white shirt made of In- dian cotton and the expensive deck shoes from Seabago – they all stank of petrol, earth, dirt and oil. He had not taken this into account. He pulled out yet another petrol can from the boot, twisted the screw top off and once again placed his foot on the doorsill. With his head and upper part of his body half inside the car, he twisted one front seat forward and awkwardly emptied the petrol over the back seat. He tossed the empty can into the car again. When he backed out of the car, he bent over using his knee to support his hands. Then, gasped for breath. Do you really think I should live in the provinces? Johan had asked when Karl suggested that once in a while he should spend the night in a German village roughly two hours’ drive

from the border between Denmark and Germany.

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Karl had recently started as student assistant at Kräsen, the dairy giant, and Johan was the new media person. They clicked nicely together.

On a warm summer’s day, Karl had once more dropped into his office and threw himself onto the sofa next to the window. "I love being in Denmark, and I am crazy about bathing in

the sea on a summer’s day like today."

Karl opened the window and let the warm air stream in. Denmark is fantastic in the summer, Johan answered and

continued drawing.

He really did not feel like talking about Denmark. Nope! All the same, Karl continued:

My parents and I have holidays in Denmark every summer. Somewhere in Jutland I think, where we used to bathe in the North Sea. You are not from Jutland; you are from Copenha- gen, aren’t you?

Johan nodded. I come from one of the northern suburbs of Copenhagen. His voice seemed flat.

Karl looked at him with curiosity and raised his eyes over the thick rim of his glasses while running a hand through his hair. Johan felt uneasy.

I have spent many wonderful days in Jutland, though it seems that the media people couldn’t care less about farmers and country folk, don’t you think? Without expecting an answer, Karl continued: If there is anything you would like to know about Germany, just fire away.

One Friday when Johan had to go to Denmark late in the afternoon, Karl promoted Hirts Guesthouse once more.

Try it. It’s a lovely place. Experience the real Germany, Karl said encouragingly and wrote the address down.

Even though Johan felt that it was ridiculous, that Friday he drove to the guest house instead of booking a room at one of the usual but expensive motels. Karl was right. The place

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was cosy. Over the past few years, he had regularly spent the night at Hirts Guest House when he was commuting between Hellerup and West Berlin.

For one minute, Johan contemplated the house. In the dark of the night, it resembled a lonely giant in the midst of the flat landscape. A few kilometres from there, he could make out the forest as a huge dark shadow.

He continued and emptied the third can of petrol in a circle around the car making the pebbles round the vehicle slippery. The final and the fourth can, he emptied into the car’s boot, and he then flung the empty cans in among the others on the back seat followed by his working gloves. He stepped a few paces back and quickly struck a match. Moving quickly he lit one of the ten crumpled balls of newspaper, which he had prepared for this. He threw the fireball towards the car’s open door.

There was no need to light the other nine. The flames had already reached the front seat. A strange whirring sound from the car’s back seat, was followed by a roaring rumble.

The car was at the point of exploding and an enormous shoot- ing flame smashed its windscreen while the fire in the rest of the car took hold so violently that the passenger seat twisted round into an absurd position.

The hospitable Herr Hirts had insisted that he should park his car beside his old Volvo that stood in the carport. Too late Johan realised that it was fatal that the car stood between the gable of the house and the carport. The plan was not for the house to burn as well!

Black clouds of smoke billowed up from the rear of the car and just then the boot hatch blew off, it flew out onto the road and hit the asphalt making a tremendous clatter. Whistling flames burst out from the boot and before too long the drive was transformed into a sea of flames.

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Just before a panic attack nearly overpowered him, his mind registered that flames had reached the lowest part of the house’s gables. Desperately he ran through the front door and into his small room. He had to do something! He ran out to the toilet and turned on the tap in the shower cabin, distraught he stuffed his clothes into a suitcase, which he then flung out through the window. After that, he ran out into the kitchen where Frau Hirts had been preparing their meal a few hours earlier. He rushed around in the dark searching franticly until he found a bucket. He filled it with water and ran out again.

The roof next to the car had caught fire and he could no longer see the vehicle as it was entirely engulfed by flames.

Sensations of powerlessness and terror rushed through him and he was shaking so much that he dropped the bucket of water. Even though the smoke scorched his eyes and all his senses confirmed that the fire was real, it all seemed unreal to him. Like a nightmare!

It was only a couple of hours ago that he had been proudly telling his hosts about his media work. Boasted in order to impress and was pleased to say that Germany’s largest dairy company was enthusiastic about his work. He had told them about Denmark, about his son, Josh, who had started school, and about his daughter, Tessa, who loved dressing up and bor- rowing her mother’s makeup.

For an instant, Johan was a man of the world, a beacon, one who was visiting these small sitting rooms in the grey suburb. Neither Herr Hirts nor Frau Hirts fancied the idea of travelling, they told him, though they relished the stories their guests told them.

The relaxed atmosphere and the wine, which Herr Hirts had fetched, made the hosts extra chatty.

Unfortunately we have never experienced the pleasure of having children.

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Herr Hirts flicked his wife an accusing look.

Never experienced the pleasure, he repeated to himself.

Frau Hirts remained silent. She only really spoke when she was serving her tasty traditional food. She had her own special way of laughing. First she would giggle and hide her face in her hands, after which she would break out in an uncontrolled roar of laughter with tears streaming down her face.

Now no one was laughing.

Ellen, Ellen, no, in hell’s name! Not the window sill! Herr Hirts’s voice was desperate. He was panic-stricken! Help, help! I want to get out! Frau Hirts yelled hysterically,

and at that moment a dull thud could be heard.

My back! My back! she groaned in a desperate voice.

The fire had caught hold of her nightdress and was quickly burning into her flesh. The poor woman yelled in agony and twisted round in jerky movements. Then there came another heavy thud.

Herr Hirts jumped out of the bedroom window at the exact moment when his brain registered that he could not save his wife.

Johan heard Herr Hirts’s shriek of despair and agony, the shrillness of which pierced through the brutal sound of flames. Exhausted he sank back. The last thing he remembered before he was dragged down into infinite darkness was seeing a frag- ment of bone that was protruding from Herr Hirts’s thigh.

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Chapter 2

The taste of smoke and earth parched his mouth. Barely audible, he groaned: Water.

In a daze, he could just about make out the outline of a man. Judging by the man’s quick movements, he was quite young.

Where he was, he hadn’t a clue. He perceived a faint prick in his right arm and with his left hand he attempted to reach out for the spot.

You are in an ambulance on your way to Hamburg Hospital. You are being treated for shock. Don’t move. You are being put on a drip. I am also going to wipe your face a little, said a male voice.

The sensation of lukewarm water against his skin sharpened his senses. A distinct medicinal smell made his nostrils tingle, and a siren was howling monotonously, all very close by. He opened his eyes wide and took the plastic mug, which the young man had handed to him. He raised his head and drained the mug with large gulps.

How are you?

The question came from a woman who alternately looked at him and at a machine where various numbers flicked across a small screen. He tried to move his other arm, and it was then he realised that he was strapped down.

Calmly the woman took one hand.

Had we arrived a couple of minutes later, we would not have been able to get you out. The roof of the house tumbled down over the lawn.

He could then see the woman’s face clearly. It was round and smiling.

Johan nodded weakly, then fell asleep. Are you in pain?

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He opened his eyes and stared at a white curtain. Steps could be heard, and the curtain was pulled aside. A deep voice started to reel off various Latin names. The voice sounded distant. It seemed quite a struggle to keep his eyes open.

Peter Mauer, I am a doctor. The voice took one of his hands.

You have been admitted to Hamburg Hospital for observa- tion for signs of internal injuries and shock. Your knee has been badly sprained, but all being well that’s all. You had a narrow escape. Do you remember your name?

Johan.

How are you?

Fine. But I am tired and thirsty, he replied in German. He tried to focus on the doctor’s name badge that was fixed to his overall. ‘Senior registrar,’ it said.

We are going to keep you in for a couple of days. Your knee is well and truly done in; it possibly feels a little stiff.

Using a little pen torch, the doctor inspected both his eyes. Johan could not help thinking that the doctor could see his heart beating hard through his white hospital gown.

I ought to ring my wife and tell her where I am.

We can wheel the hospital telephone over to you or you can get a nurse to ring for you.

The doctor checked his pulse.

Just relax now. The police have caught the pyromaniac. Johan turned round in his bed in order to support his elbow.

The doctor continued: He is unlikely to do any more harm. Caught him? asked Johan surprised.

The pyromaniac is no doubt depressed and mentally ill. This sort of thing is invariably a cry for help. The police caught him a couple of kilometres away from the scene.

Slowly Johan came to his senses. He shook his head despair- ingly.

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Such a relief. I don’t really understand what happened. We will now give you a mild sedative, interjected a ma-

tronly nurse who had remained in the background.

She introduced herself as Nete and gave him a small blue plastic mug with a couple of pills in it.

Press this button if you need anything.

With his eyes he followed her plump finger that pointed to a little button on the bedside table.

I need to ring my wife. I would like to use a phone as soon as possible, Johan asked again.

The doctor nodded.

Would you like Nete ring so that you can get some sleep?

It had better be me that talks to her. My wife will be worried if someone from the hospital rings.

The doctor and the nurse both nodded.

Just relax. We are used to having Danes admitted. They are not usually any trouble, interjected the doctor and got ready to go.

Rune Niebourg from the local police was here while you slept. He will pop round again at about midday. No doubt he will want to find out whether you saw anything.

He then turned round and left the room with Nete.

Once Johan was alone, it was clear to him that he should get out before the police turned up. He had to get back to the house to find his suitcase before the police got their hands on it. Cautiously he stretched his leg. That movement caused a wave of pain to shoot through his body. He fell back on the bed wondering how on earth he would get away.

Shortly after there was a voice:

The telephone is ready for you.

A young man of African descent wheeled a little table with a telephone on it to the side of his bed.

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My name is Jack. Give me a shout if you have problems getting through.

The man left the room.

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Chapter 3

As soon as he was alone, he dialled the number. Pick up the phone now! Pick up the phone now!

He was a bag of nerves and his hands were trembling. Finally, someone did pick up the phone:

Dieter Stormann.

This deep familiar voice immediately made Johan’s tense muscles loosen up a bit. This was a voice which in a subtle way always instilled in him calm and hope.

It’s me. Things have gone wrong. Gone wrong? What do you mean?

The guest house where I was staying burned down last night. I have been admitted to Hamburg hospital.

What the hell are you saying? Has something happened to you? His voice sounded serious.

It’s a complicated story. Get a car to pick me up at the main entrance. I must get away immediately! The police are going to interrogate me! A policeman is likely to turn up at any moment! For a few seconds the phone went quiet. "A grey BMW 6, driver has a swarthy complexion. He will stop near the en-

trance. You can’t miss him."

When? There is no time to lose! Johan gasped.

Twenty minutes! The driver’s name is Masoud. Count on him! He is one of my best people! I will also fix it so that your Danish ID number is removed from the system. The police are not the most important; the most important thing is that you are okay. Dieter sounded serious and worried.

Given the circumstances, I am fine. I will ring when I have news.

Johan hung up and pressed the button on his bedside table. A few minutes later, Nete popped in.

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Did you get to speak to your wife? she asked in an inquis- itive manner and trundled the table with the phone on it to the door.

Yes, I managed to put her mind at rest.

Nete stood at the door and gave him a sympathetic look. It’s horrible you encountering a pyromaniac during your visit to Germany!

He could not be bothered to tell her that he was not on a visit, but worked for one of the top companies in the country. The matronly nurse looked like the sort of person who had far too little to do and was able to jabber away for hours on end. Just then, Jack turned up again. Didn’t they really have anything else to do?

Did you get through?

Jack smiled, took hold of the telephone table and continued: "I heard on the radio that the police have sealed off the house

where they found you."

The great sensation of the day was unfolding with him in the lead role. Johan had to get out of here! Quickly! With a deep sigh, he let his head fall back on the pillow and grimaced. Oh, this knee!

Nete was beside the bed like a shot. Do you need more painkillers?

No, no. I just need to sleep.

As soon as they had closed the door, he threw his legs over the bedside and opened the door slightly. Towards his left, he heard Nete and Jack chatting. Their voices already sounded distant and he heard a door closing. Quickly he snatched his clothes out of a cupboard, gathered them in a little bundle and hobbled out of the door. Before edging his way to the right, he closed the door of his room. Should he be discovered he would make out that he was confused because of the shock.

He passed eight wards, limped on through a swing door

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and reached a staircase. Still no one. He hobbled down two storeys; he felt as if a hammer had hit his left knee. When he finally reached the bottom step, he realised why he had not met one single person. At the bottom of the stairwell, there were dustcarts, sweepers, sacks of road salt, shovels and other tools. There were no exit doors to freedom. The room was closed off by a solid wooden door.

Hell!

Without a key, it would be impossible to open the wooden door. He looked around. His eyes fell on two large windows at the opposite end of the storage room. He struggled out of his white hospital shirt and put his own clothes on. With a snow shovel in his hands, he limped over towards the windows, and with all his might, he smashed the shovel against one of the panes. The glass shattered with a tremendous noise and small pieces of glass flew around.

Whether it was the medicine or the shock from the previous night that made him shake, he did not know. He repeatedly poked the shovel against the edges of the window to remove as many bits of glass as possible.

He managed to wriggle through the window without cutting himself, but then he lost his footing and landed on his back on the asphalt.

For a moment, he considered giving it all up and to remain lying on the ground screaming. Just screaming! But then he pulled himself together and stumbled up onto his feet. He found it difficult to walk due to the pain in his leg.

He hobbled backwards and forwards along the wall of the hospital so as to try and catch a glimpse of the main entrance. Most cars were driving down one particular road. Then he caught sight of one building that was bigger and older than the hospital’s other buildings. As fast as he could, he hobbled towards the entrance.

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A BMW turned round and drove up beside him. Here, quick!

Hardly had Johan slumped into the back seat, when the driver pressed his foot right down hard on the accelerator. With a mighty jerk, he was thrown back in the seat and there came a loud roar from the engine of this heavy luxury vehicle.

That was close! I didn’t think that you had made it! The police arrived a minute ago, said the driver and introduced himself. You know where we are heading?

Masoud nodded.

I know the town and the road to it, but not the house.

It was not long before they got onto the motorway. Masoud offered him a bottle of cola then handed him a bottle opener.

Johan drank eagerly.

The police will definitely have blocked off the house after the fire, coughed Johan.

I’ll make sure that you get your things. When the boss says that you will get back without problems, then you will. I have solved more difficult problems than this for Dieter Stormann in the past, he said in German with a slight accent that Johan could not place.

Overall Masoud looked like the sort of chap who would be employed in an office. His hair was black with masses of grey flecks and he had friendly, close-set, brown eyes. There was not a fold out of place on his grey suit or shirt, and his tie was neat. We are nearly there, explained Masoud and reduced speed

a little before his large BMW, still at high speed, drove through the sleepy main street of the village.

Johan gave directions to the house while rubbing his knee. It was painful!

Immediately before the house came into view, his nose started to sting due to the smoke. The horrors of the night came rush- ing back and on arrival he felt faint.

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The area was swamped with water just like after a heavy downpour, and the house was nothing other than a charred ruin that was sealed off with security tape, polizei printed on it. Just as Masoud was braking close to the drive, they spotted a police car in the distance. It appeared that a policeman was sitting in the car.

Can you see your things?

If they are here, they must be round the back.

The car rolled forward quietly and Johan caught sight of his suitcase amongst tall grass.

The policeman stepped out of the police car and sauntered towards them slowly. Masoud rolled the window down. The policeman took a deep breath on reaching the car, but before he could utter a word, Masoud aimed a pistol at him.

The policeman was dumbfounded! He was a big man, and evidently he could not believe his eyes.

Turn round and lie down.

In a flash, Masoud elegantly stepped out of the car, still with his pistol aimed at the policeman’s face. At close quarters Masoud pressed his pistol against the policeman’s temple. Down!

The policeman obeyed and went down slowly on all fours, finally lying flat on his stomach.

Fetch your things! Masoud ordered and nodded to Johan who noticed a ferocity in those eyes that were so friendly earlier on.

As quickly as he could he edged through the barrier and elbowed his way to his suitcase. The most important things were his wallet with his passport and his driving licence. He would rely on Dieter to see to it that his Danish ID number disappeared from the hospital records.

When Johan had stuffed all his things down into the boot, he hobbled onto the back seat and closed the door. Just at

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that moment a bang resonated from Masoud’s little Haenel Schmeisser pistol.

Johan did not take in what had happened until the car roared off again and out of the little town.

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First part

Chapter 4

Leningrad, November 1941

There were four main roads out of Leningrad, plus nu- merous minor roads, which meandered from its centre. The fourth battalion had been stationed at the windswept Finnish border town, Ivarli, under the command of SS-major gen-

eral Jürgen Hahn. They had marched and fought their way 210 kilometres to the Russian village Smylinsko, which was less than 10 kilometres from the centre of Leningrad. With massive support from the Luftwaffe’s bombers that had been in operation almost continuously with a barbaric aggression never experienced before bombing Russian towns and civil- ian targets indiscriminately, including schools and hospitals, the fourth battalion managed to penetrate far deeper into Russian territory than anyone would have expected from a conventional war strategy.

On 6 June 1941 at exactly 1 pm, Hahn bellowed: Burn the church! This was the end of a two-hour round up for Smy- linsko village’s shocked residents and the start of the four-year long siege of Leningrad.

The screams from the 152 residents of this village went on for the next three hours until their church was burnt down completely. Black clouds of smoke and a stench of burned flesh continued to bellow out from the ruin-crater for the rest of the afternoon with the result that all the soldiers were sick one by one. The 500 year old village church had ended as an evil death trap for Smylinsko’s God-fearing residents who had tended it for many generations. The fourth battalion had been lucky. They had managed to conquer an almost intact village, which meant that for a while they had sleeping facilities and even running water.

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Jürgen Hahn trudged restlessly backwards and forwards in the small mobile hut that acted as the camp’s control centre.

Bloody cold, he would utter intermittently, these words sounded harsh and were just about audible squeezed through his narrow chapped lips. Jürgen Hahn stamped lightly on the floor and buried his hands even more deeply into his coat pock- ets. His coat was made of thick black leather and reached right down to the edge of his boots. Neither his coat nor his high boots could keep the cold out any longer. Under his coat he wore his uniform jacket, shirt and tie and the grey well-pressed but almost worn-out trousers which he had stuffed down into his boots. His decorations were hidden under his coat; they sat fixed to the right hand side of his uniform jacket. He had the urge to finger the iron