Danny Billings used the unfamiliar keys to let himself into his grandmother’s house. Her funeral had been a week ago. It was time to make a start on clearing out the terraced house she had lived in. Irene Billings had been in her late nineties, and part of that generation that had drank and smoke and ate what they wanted, ignoring the modern fad of trying to live a healthy life-style. And she had lived to a good old age, like a lot of her contemporaries. His beloved grandmother had done so much for Danny over the years. 

As he entered the narrow hallway, he had to stop himself from calling out for her. It really felt as though he could find her in the kitchen making a pot of tea. He tucked the house keys in his coat-pocket and went through to the living room. He swallowed back the tears as he took in the room still crammed with her things. 

He crossed to the fireplace, staring at the urn containing Irene’s ashes. He gently patted the urn, tears in his eyes. His grandparents had been the only family he’d ever really known. His father had never really been on the scene, and his mother had struggled to raise him on her own, and so, finally, like his father, she had disappeared, leaving his grandparents to raise him. When his grandfather had died almost a decade ago, it had left the two of them, Danny and his grandmother, a tight, close family unit. His granny had been like a mother to him. She had been his confidante, the person he had turned to for advice. 

There would be a removal company and skip hire and all that, later in the week, once Danny had sorted out what he would be keeping for sentimental reasons, what would be going to the local charity shops, and what would be heading for the tip. He sensed that Irene would have been pleased that her belongings were going to the very charity shops that she had frequented herself. The circle of life, he said to himself, with a sad smile. 

By the following afternoon, Danny was climbing the clanking metal ladders up to the loft. He reached up and pulled the chord for the light. The bare light-bulb overhead swung gently casting shadows across the dusty loft-space. The attic was crammed with stacks of cardboard boxes, many of which were labelled and marked in black pen.

He grabbed one of the boxes nearest him, pulled off the lid, and peered inside. One of the boxes he rummaged through was full of papers. He pulled out a long sheet of paper and gasped. This was Irene’s birth certificate. According to the document her maiden name had been Irene Weiss and she had been born in Germany. 

Danny was surprised that his grandmother was originally from Germany. Her name would have been pronounced differently to the way he said it too. Her name, Irene, would have been pronounced Eye-ree-neh as opposed to Eye-reen.

He couldn’t recall hearing anything about her coming to the UK from Germany. Mind you, his childhood, with his missing parents, there was never anyone really to talk of family histories and stories. It had been him and his grandparents against the world. He had wanted for nothing and had been made to feel loved and wanted.

Perhaps she had come to the UK in her youth and settled down, meeting his grandfather. Unlike some of his friends who were proud of their heritage, of having Irish or Italian family history, his grandmother had left her origins behind her, and fully embraced the country she had settled in. 

Irene had left her native country and concentrated on raising a family with the man she loved. She hadn’t really had much of an accent either. She hadn’t sound German, just had a standard flat, Northern English accent. Maybe over the years she’d lost her accent, or maybe she’d wanted to speak in a similar way to her adopted country people, or maybe she was a young girl when she came over to this country. He had so many questions, and the only person who had the answers was no longer here to answer them. 

The next box he went through was full of family photographs from the 1960s, holidays to Blackpool, trips to the fair. In the pictures his grandparents were younger and were dressed in the fashions of the time, and his mother was a little girl in pig-tails. There were photos of family Christmases, dinner tables, presents and party-hats. 

He really would have to have a good sort out, and put everything in some kind of order. There was a lot of things that could be bagged up in bin-liners and taken to the tip. There were lots of video tapes of films he’d never heard of, and cassette tapes of 1980s bands that had long since split. 

The next day in his sorting and rummaging, he reached the back of the loft space. One box was tucked right at the very back of the loft. The ornate trunk was coated in a thick layer of dust. He lifted the lid of the trunk, and wiped the dust off his hands. He peered inside at the contents. It appeared to be more paperwork, photographs and documents. 

He pulled out a photograph and stared in confusion. He recognised the woman in the photo. It was his grandmother when she was in her twenties. It was the location and what she was wearing that troubled him. 

His grandmother was standing in front of large iron gates, with barbed wire and a metal sign. He couldn’t understand the writing over the gate, but he knew it was the entrance to a Nazi concentration camp. His grandmother was young, smiling broadly, her hairstyle done in the style of the 1940s, hands on her hips, proudly displaying her Swastika arm band. 

This was too much. He dropped the photo back into the truck and stumbled back across the loft. He dashed down the ladder and reached the landing. He stared up at the loft-hatch in horror, as though he had just discovered a monster up there. A shiver went through him. Maybe he had, he thought. 

Back downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table, he took out his mobile phone. He searched on the internet, typing in Irene Weiss, Nazi Germany. When the search results came in, he almost dropped his mobile phone. 

He gasped and read in utter shock at the atrocities this woman had committed. The Irene Weiss they mentioned was clearly his grandmother, the birthdate and place listed was the same as the birth certificate he had found, and it was her. The photographs of Irene in her youth, dressed in Nazi uniform, was definitely his grandmother. The person in the Nazi regalia was his grandmother, she had aged, but her features were still the same. It was his grandmother in her youth. And from what he read in the articles, she had revelled in the part she played in the Nazi regime. 

He read on disgusted and yet fascinated, intrigued and compelled to read on. This woman had been one of sixteen female camp warders who had been arrested at the end of the Second World War and charged for war crimes. When she was being transferred from one prison to another, Irene Weiss disappeared, making her escape. She had vanished, and despite extensive searches across Europe, she had never been found. 

Danny felt sick. He knew exactly what had happened to the wanted Nazi criminal. She had evaded capture and eventually settled down in England, and raising a family. His family. Growing up without his parents, he had considered himself blessed that he had had his grandmother, that she had been there to bring him up. Now, he felt it was more of a curse. His head was spinning with it all.

How could he match the old lady who would spoil him and who raised him, with the notorious monster? She had been the nicest person in the world, so far removed from the war criminal who had fled to avoid capture. 

He felt like she was haunting him from beyond the grave. The sweet lady that had nurtured him had been hiding such an awful past. How could this even be possible? It was like those celebrities who, after they had died, had been revealed to be monsters who committed all kinds of horrific acts.

His beloved grandmother had been part of atrocities. The dear, sweet woman, who had raised him to be the person he was today, had, in her own youth, been responsible for some of the worst atrocities in modern history.

Had she gone on to regret the acts of her youth? Had that been the reason why she had transformed into the gentle, caring person who had raised him? Or had the whole thing been an act, a cover, to evade being caught and tried? He just couldn’t seem to marry the two women together into being the same person, and yet he knew it was certainly true. 

He went through to the living room. He stared at the urn on the fireplace as though it held the answers to the many questions rushing round his head. When he had entered the house, it had felt like coming home, back to the residence of a loved one. Now, it felt like he was standing in the house of a complete stranger. 

He had to get out of the place, had to clear his head. He turned to the door, then stopped, glancing back over his shoulder at the fireplace. 

Quite unsure where he was headed, he grabbed the urn and headed for his car. He drove out of town, further and further, without a clear direction in mind. As he drove he glanced down at the urn on the passenger seat. Who are you? he whispered. He pushed the car on that bit faster. 

Eventually, miles out into the countryside, he came to a stop. A small river bubbled along by the side of the road. Taking the urn, he climbed out of the car and went to the riverside. Standing on the banks, he watched the river flowing for a long moment. Finally, he removed the lid of the urn and gently tipped the contents into the dashing waters. He had intended for a nice little ceremony when scattering her ashes, to have some words prepared, maybe play her favourite piece of music. But all of that seemed tainted, twisted, somehow. 

A man in his sixties, with grey hair and a beard, passed by walking his dog. He paused and motioned to the urn Danny was holding.

‘Was that the ashes of a loved one?’ The man asked, his voice quiet, respectful. 

‘My grandmother.’ Danny said.

‘What was she like?’ the man asked. 

Danny sighed deeply and shook his head.

‘I honestly do not know.’ Danny said. 

After watching the river flowing for another moment, he sighed again, and turn back to the car.

Back home, he called the War Museum and asked who he needed to contact to report information on a deceased Nazi war criminal.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom