We were both using aliases but from start of our first meeting, I recognised his face, which was a bit awkward given the circumstances. We'd arrange to meet in Saucers coffee shop and if we both agreed on a price then we would go onto to another location to view "the merchandise".

I'm a collector of World War Two Nazi memorabilia and whilst I'm not ashamed of my little hobby, I can see why it would cause offense to many people. If I were called upon to explain myself however I would have to say that as a graphic designer I'm primarily drawn to the imagery and iconography of the material. The horrific history that it represents can never be disassociated with it of course, but for me, that was the shadow cast by the imagery, not the objects themselves.

I also have never, and would never, personally profit from this form of memorabilia, although obviously, as a buyer, I am contributing to the profit of others.

So, for moral reasons, I kept my hobby to myself and a finger firmly on the pulse of the legal but black, with a small 'b', market.

When I walked into Saucers to make my first contact with 'Simon', the only customer, I knew instantly that his real name was Adrian Trainer and that he went to Newhamwood Senior School in Bedworth between 1979 and 1983. And I knew this because I did too. We used to be classmates. We moved away and I left the school before the end of the final year and as I had dated his sister. She was a year younger than us, not very pretty and quite needy. The fact that we should meet again wasn’t exactly a cataclysmic coincidence either as I had moved back to the area and Adrian may never have moved away. However, he didn’t appear to recognise me, which made introductions slightly awkward.

We'd made eye contact and I crossed the room. I decided to sidestep whether I should use his alias or his real name by extending my hand with, "Hi, I'm Dave."

"Simon," he said. "Glad you could make it."

He still didn't recognise me, but then it had been over thirty-five years and I thought it best not to mention it. "Glad you could too," I told him and took a seat.

"I ordered tea," he said, "I hope that's okay."

"Tea is good," I said. "Thanks."

"So how long you been collecting?" he asked.

I wanted to say 'since I was at school', but as he hadn't recognised me I thought that might be weird. Especially as I intended to fake remembering him at some point, just to get the awkwardness out of the way.

"A few years," I told him. "Are you a collector?"

He shrugged, and did a hand-tipping motion, "Not really, I dabble and I know people, but I'm essentially a memorabilia dealer first and foremost."

I nodded. It was a coincidence that we knew each other but these things happen, right?

"So what's the attraction to this stuff?" he asked. It was a fair question.

"Well, first of all, it's not political in any shape or form," I said.

"That's good," he smiled, "I've met some total nut-jobs in my time, you probably have too."

"Occupational hazard," I said, "I won't talk politics of any kind. One mention of it and it's like the Nuremberg Rallys."

'Simon' nodded, "I been there so many times."

The waitress appeared with the tea tray. "Two teas?"

As we were the only customers in the shop the question wasn't necessary but I appreciated the good service. She placed the two cups and the teapot on our table and we thanked her. "Just give it a minute to mash," she advised as she left.

"Well," I said, "I got your list of items and prices, the photos were excellent by the way, and thanks for your patience." It had taken me over a week to research the authenticity of the items. It wasn't wise to involve third parties, and as a history-nerd, I enjoyed it. It was also rewarding to find that these items would be the icing on the cake of my collection, the equivalent of Nazi gold dust.

'Simon' nodded for me to go on.

"So, the good news is I'm interested in taking every item, the whole collection, okay? The bad news is that I have a budget."

"Okay," he said, "that makes things simple in terms of negotiations."

"Maybe," I said, "that depends on your price."

"I guess it does," he agreed.

I enjoyed this. Negotiation was a rush for me. I had to decide whether to put the first card down or to hold back and then whether to play the old-school-mates card at some point or not should I need to put him off-balance. It would be risky as he might walk away instantly, but, if need be, I had the option.

"So how do you want to do this?" 'Simon' asked. "Closed auction?"

It wasn't a bad idea. The way it works is we both write down a price we're happy with an exchange. If I underbid, we both go again, if I overbid, we would usually agree to split the difference, but either of us can pull out at any point.

"That sounds good," I said, "I even bought my own pen."

We wrote on our napkins. I wrote £5K and I handed it over.

I took his napkin and turned it over. £10K.

We both took a moment to assess the situation.

I thought it was a good time to pour the tea. "Do you take sugar?" I asked as I poured.

"Just milk," he said. “Thanks."

I added the milk.

I'd made up my mind on my next move.

We both sipped our tea then I said, "How about I offer you my take-it-or-leave-it price, my maximum budget?"

He nodded.

"But, honestly, as much as I want to buy, that's my limit," I told him. "I'm very serious when I say that’s my limit."

He nodded again. He was patient but I hadn't finished yet.

"And remember I don't know what you paid if anything."

"Well, I paid something for it," he said.

It was my turn to nod. I told him, "Eight thousand pounds."

'Simon' drank some tea, I drank some tea, then said, "Did you bring a padlock, cos you got a deal."

An hour later we were back in Saucers. We'd been to a Supersafe Storage Units and inspected the collection. I now had the key to the padlock on the unit and had transferred the money into 'Simon's' bank. Once that was verified as having arrived into his account, then the deal was done. This involved a degree of trust, but, as they say, ‘you pay your money: you take your chance’.

I needn't have worries on that score, the whole process ran as smooth as silk.

I was very fortunate to have purchased a house with a very large basement and this was where I displayed my private collection. And it was private. Since I had built it eleven years ago, nobody but myself had gone down those steps. Very few people in the world had ever seen pictures of it. The exception being one online friend, Todd, with whom I shared an interest in such things.

I also made my own display cabinets. I convert antique furniture using sealed glass panels, velvet backing and some modest lighting.

Okay, so maybe I haven't been entirely honest about my motivations for my collecting. And by entirely I mean that everything I have told you is true, but it is not the entire truth. There is something else, another benefit shall we say. And it's one I am slightly ashamed of, although I'm not hurting anyone as such.

These artifacts are, or were, weapons of war. As such they have been used in conflict, in battles, in wars. These weapons were used to kill. They weren't army surplus items taken off a shelf, they’d been prised from the hand of a dead soldier.

And this is the weird bit: I can feel it.

What I mean is, and I know how this sounds; when I hold the weapon, sometimes, I'm there, pulling the trigger, running the bayonet through, or slashing flesh with the knife. At that moment, in a particular pose, I am that German storm-trooper, I am that sniper, I am that SS officer. And I have that power an I feel, see and hear my actions, my use of the weapon.

How? My guess is its either an echoing memory somehow attached to the weapon that can be accessed by holding the weapon similar to that of the soldier or officer, or, it's my overactive imagination with a touch of insanity. It doesn't feel like it, but then would I know if it did?

My excitement and anticipation for this particular set of items were that they were all previously the property of one man.

Willhelm Thellman.

He was born 4 June 1918, he served 2nd SS Panzer Division Das Reich and SS Brigade Westfalen. He was promoted to Captain of the 12th SS Panzer Division Hitlerjugend who were involved in the Ascq massacre on 1 April 1944 in France and a massacre at Leskovice in May 1945 in Czechoslovakia. Died in June 1945.

I undid the latch to the glass door on the cabinet. Inside were his cap, belt, Luger pistol within its holster and the blood-red swastika armband. The uniform, designed by Hugo Boss no less, hung alongside it in the tall cabinet.

I wondered what kind of man Willhelm was. The massacres at Ascq and Leskovice involved the brutal murder of defenseless citizens by a retreating and already defeated German army. Had the Captain Thellman been a willing participant or so hardened by the horrors of war that he no longer knew or cared.

Before I took the pistol out of the holster I had to go online to share the experience with Todd. I had a laptop set up in the corner of the room and with just a few key taps I was dialing-in to Todd’s encrypted chat window.

 

Me: hi todd

Todd: did you get it

Me: i did.

Todd: omg

Todd: everything?

Me: yes everything perfect condition too

Todd: im sooooo jealous

Me: I’m going to hold the luger now

Todd: wish i could see this

 

It was then that I had the thought, for a one-off, why don’t I switch the webcam on for Todd?

 

Me: Do you want to? Private peer to peer video?

Todd: of course

Todd: your call tho bro

 

I tapped into my account and dialed up Todd again.

 

Todd: I see you

Todd: my camera is down hold on

 

 

I stood before the laptop and saw my image in the small box in the bottom corner of the screen. The main screen showing Todd’s image was a blank dark gray.

 

Me: no worries

Me: ready?

Todd: yes go for it

 

I reached for the Luger and unsnapped the press-stud that held the holster flap in place revealing the brown knurled handle. It felt good in my hand, heavier than I thought it would be, the perfect handgun.

Todd’s voice came through the computer speakers. “I can't believe how new it looks.”

I replaced the pistol in the holster on my belt and added the peaked cap for effect.

Todd chuckled, “You certainly look the part! I’m reading up on our friend Captain Thellman now.”

There was a wealth of information on Nazi officers available online. I intended to do some more extensive research myself later but was happy for Todd to give me some more headlines.

I firmed up my grip on the pistol and felt a tingle of a memory coming through. Although it was only an awareness at first, the basic primal senses of another person, it was always a shock to my system when those first sensations began to form.

“It says here,” Todd said, “that he wrote a confession before he died.”

“I see,” I said, but my focus was on the new surroundings that were forming in my mind. I closed my eyes and it became clearer still; I was in a formal town-hall type of room dark wood-paneled walls, adorned with large paintings and German ceremonial flags. I could hear voices, speaking German, I could pick out some words but the accents and rapid-fire of the delivery were too much for my basic bi-lingual ear.

Todd was speaking also, “Before I carry on,” he said, “I have a confession of my own.”

There were faces now, people sat at a table in front of me, all asking questions, raising their voices, when “I” didn’t answer. I felt a stone-cold resentment to these people, magnified by the feeling that I had once admired them. I was enthralled by the drama and ceremony of it all and my unique experiencing of it.

“My names not Todd.”

When I spoke to them it was with a very slow and deliberate tone that verbalised this resentment and gave vent to my overwhelming hatred of them and of myself.

“But you do know me,” Todd went on, “and my sister.”

“What?” I said. I was confused by trying to listen to these two conversations at once. The panel of faces I could see extremely clearly now, but not understand a word, and I could hear Todd’s voice but struggled to make sense of the words. Maybe I misheard him but I thought he mentioned his sister which made no sense.

“I don’t understand,” I managed to say. Captain Thellman, if that’s who I was inside of, was pointing fingers at his accusers now. His shouting far superior to theirs.

“My name is not Todd, its Adrian, but you also know me as Simon,” Todd said, “I also had a sister, Mary, who you dated in high school.”

“What?”

“When you left school and moved to Surrey, you took great sadistic pleasure in saying she quote, “Looks like a pig and fucks like a pig”. Do you remember?”

“No! Yes!” I did remember. I had used her for a while, made promises to get what I wanted, knowing I was leaving. “I was fifteen!”

I wanted to explain myself but couldn’t pull away from Captain Thellman’s ranting.

“She was pregnant. And she killed herself,” Adrian told me, “she told me why. She said that you were right, she was a pig, she would always be a pig and didn’t deserve to live-” His voice gave out.

“She couldn’t have done that because of me.”

“After she died, I promised her that we would take our revenge. And it took some time, but I found you online and found your little secret and then I searched found Captain Thellman’s memorabilia for you. And Captain Thellman was very special, do you know why?”

“No, please,” I begged, “stop this.”

“I’ll tell you why,” Adrian went on, “because on July 3rd 1945, before a board-hearing at Gestapo HQ office in Prague where he was called to explain his refusal to execute prisoners, Captain Thellman also took his own life.”

Tears ran down my face. I could see the faces at the table staring at me in shock as I raised the pistol.

“Just like my sister, he killed himself,” Adrian whispered, “with the pistol that you hold in your hand. The pistol that I bought, reinstated and loaded.”

I could feel my finger on the trigger and the tip of the barrel pressed to my ear. Thellman was shouting his final words.

“Goodbye,” Adrian spat. I could see his face on the computer screen. Triumphant.

I could feel my finger on the trigger, gradually applying more pressure as the trigger resisted but traveled backward only by millimeters until it came to stop, its final resistance, and with another ounce of pressure it gave way to a click and-