Black Cross. Greg Iles
it,” Leibovitz commanded.
I looked over my shoulder at him, then turned back and lifted the lid off the box. The glint of polished metal flickered in the light.
“What is that?” I asked.
“The Victoria Cross. The most coveted decoration in the British Empire. Have you heard of it?”
“The Victoria Cross … Isn’t that what Michael Caine won in Zulu?”
Leibovitz shook his head sadly. “Television,” he muttered. “Yes, the Victoria Cross was awarded to a handful of Englishmen who repulsed an overwhelming Zulu army at Rorke’s Drift in South Africa.”
I lifted the cross gingerly and examined it in the light. It was bronze, and hung from a crimson ribbon. The center of the cross bore a lion standing upon a crown. Engraved on a scroll beneath the crown were the words: FOR VALOUR.
Rabbi Leibovitz spoke as if addressing a small congregation. “The list of recipients of the V.C. constitutes the most revered roll in English military history, Mark. As far as the public knows, only thirteen hundred and fifty have been awarded since the decoration was instituted by Queen Victoria in 1856. But there is another list—a much smaller list—that is known to no one but the monarch and the prime minister. It is the Secret List, and upon it are inscribed the names of those who have performed unparalleled acts of valor and devotion in the face of the enemy, but of such a sensitive nature that they can never be revealed.” He took a deep breath, then said: “Your grandfather’s name is on that list, Mark.”
My head snapped up in astonishment. “You must be joking. He never mentioned anything like that to me.”
The old rabbi smiled patiently. “That was the charge that came with the award. The decoration can never be worn in public. I suppose the secret cross was given so that in the dark of night, long after glory had passed, men like your grandfather would have something to remind them that their … sacrifices were appreciated.” Leibovitz looked thoughtful. “Still, it takes a special kind of man to hide that kind of glory.”
“Granddad was no egomaniac,” I conceded, “but he wasn’t especially modest either. He didn’t hide honors he deserved.”
Leibovitz sighed sadly. “Mac deserved this honor, but he wasn’t proud of what he had done to deserve it. He began the war as a conscientious objector, you know.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Mark, long ago your grandfather sought me out to discuss something that troubled him deeply. He’d spoken to his Christian pastor about it, but said the fellow hadn’t really understood what he was talking about. The pastor told Mac he was a hero, that he had no reason to be ashamed of what he’d done. Mac struggled along on his own for a while, then finally came to me.”
“Why you?”
“Because I’m a Jew. He thought perhaps I could give him special insight into his problem, that I might be able to help him to unburden his soul.”
I swallowed. “Did you?”
“I tried my best. I truly did. Over a period of years, in fact. And he was grateful for the effort. But I never really succeeded. Your grandfather carried his burden with him to the grave.”
“Well, damn it, you’ve got to tell me now. What did he do that was so terrible? And when did he do it? He told me that he spent the war in England.”
Leibovitz’s eyes settled on some neutral point in space. “He spent most of the war in England, that’s true—doing research at Oxford. But for two short weeks, your grandfather traveled quite a bit. And his travels ultimately led him to a place that must have been very close to hell on earth.”
“Where was that?”
Leibovitz’s face hardened. “A place called Totenhausen, on the Recknitz River in northern Germany. As to when Mac was there, if you turn over the cross it will tell you.”
I turned the cross over. Engraved on its back were the words:
Mark Cameron McConnell, M.D.
15 February 1944
“That’s the date that the act of valor took place,” Leibovitz murmured. “Fifty years ago, your grandfather did something so strategically important, so singularly heroic that he was awarded an honor only one other non-British subject has ever received. That other recipient was also an American.”
“Who was it?”
The rabbi straightened-up with difficulty, his spine stiff as a ramrod. “The Unknown Soldier.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “I can’t believe this,” I said hoarsely. “This is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever heard. Or seen,” I added, holding up the ribbon and cross. It seemed somehow heavier in my hands.
“You’re about to see something still more extraordinary,” Leibovitz said. “Something unique.”
I swallowed in anticipation.
“Look under the padding in the box. It should still be there.”
I handed the cross to Rabbi Leibovitz, then gingerly lifted the linen cloth that lined the bottom of the pine box. Beneath it I found a frayed swatch of woolen cloth, a Scottish tartan pattern. I looked up questioningly.
“Keep going,” Leibovitz said.
Beneath the tartan I found a photograph. It was black-and-white, with contrasts so stark it looked like one of the old Dust Bowl photographs from Life magazine. It showed a young woman from the waist up. She wore a simple cotton dress, her slender body posed rather formally against a background of dark wooden planks. Her shoulder-length hair was blonde and straight, and seemed to glow against the unfinished wood. Her face, though worn by care lines around the mouth, was set off by eyes as dark as the wood behind her. I guessed her age at thirty.
“Who is this?” I asked. “She’s … I don’t know. Not beautiful exactly, but … alive. Is it my grandmother? When she was younger, I mean?”
Rabbi Leibovitz waved his hand impatiently. “All in good time. Look beneath the photograph.”
I did. A meticulously folded piece of notepaper lay there, wrinkled and yellowed with age. I lifted it out and started to unfold it.
“Careful,” he warned.
“Is this the citation for the award?” I asked, working delicately at the paper.
“Something else altogether.”
I had it open now. The handwritten blue letters had almost completely faded, as if the note had been put through a washing machine by mistake, but the few words were still legible. I read them with a strange sense of puzzlement.
On my head be these deaths.
W
“I can barely read it. What does it mean? Who is ‘W’?”
“You can barely read the writing, Mark, because it was nearly washed away by the freezing waters of the Recknitz River in 1944. What the note means can only be explained by telling you a rather involved and shocking story. And ‘W’—as the author of that note so cryptically described himself—was Winston Churchill.”
“Churchill!”
“Yes.” The old rabbi smiled mischievously. “And thereby hangs a tale.”
“My God,” I said.
“Would you have any brandy about?” asked Leibovitz.
I went to fetch a bottle.
“I lay it all at Churchill’s door.”
The old rabbi had ensconced himself in a leather wing chair with a crocheted comforter around his knees and the brandy glass in his hand. “You