V2

by Robert Harris

  Huber flushed and glared at Graf but made no reply.

  ‘Check,’ said Seidel.

  Graf looked down at the board. He was thinking of the girl in the Wassenaar wood. What had she been doing there? He didn’t regret letting her go. If he had handed her over to the SS in their present mood, shooting would have been the least of it. He put his forefinger on the top of his king. He could move it again. Perhaps he would find a way out if he stalled for long enough. Seidel was not a strong player. But he couldn’t be bothered. He tipped the piece over.

  ‘I surrender.’

  ‘Finally!’ Seidel started clearing the pieces, as if he feared Graf might change his mind. ‘Another?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m too tired.’

  ‘A drink then?’ He signalled to the orderly. ‘Two cognacs.’

  ‘We have no cognac, Oberleutnant.’

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘Curaçao.’

  Seidel wrinkled his nose. ‘It had better be that, then.’

  After the orderly had gone, Graf said, ‘That brothel this morning…’

  ‘What of it?’ Seidel was putting the pieces back in their box.

  ‘Who are the girls?’

  ‘Oh, all sorts. Some Dutch. Some French. Some Polish. It’s quite above-board. The army runs it.’

  ‘Where do they get the women?’

  ‘Prisoners from the camps, mostly. A few professionals from before the war. Why?’

  ‘Sounds grim.’

  Seidel shrugged. ‘Everyone is just trying to survive.’

  ‘You’ve been?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  The orderly returned with two glasses of bright blue liquid.

  Graf said, ‘It looks like copper sulphate.’

  ‘Smells like it, too.’ Seidel took a sip. ‘Actually, it’s not so bad. Try it.’ He waited while Graf put the glass to his lips. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s like gasoline with a twist of orange.’ He downed it nevertheless. He played with the empty glass for a moment, then set it on the table. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘This brothel.’

  Seidel laughed. ‘My dear Graf, you surprise me every day! Are you serious?’

  ‘No, not really.’ He felt embarrassed. ‘Forget I said it.’

  ‘But now you’ve put the idea into my head.’ Seidel drained his glass. ‘Why not? Let’s at least get out of this morgue.’

  Graf was conscious of the others watching as they walked towards the door.

  Huber called after them. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen!’

  They descended the staircase, past black-and-white photographs of pre-war holidays, and went out onto the deserted promenade. The breeze was stiff with the scent of brine and seaweed. A canopy was flapping somewhere. A steel cable clinked a hollow beat against a metal pole. The massive hulk of the Palace Hotel, with its towers and high domed roof, loomed like an ocean liner run aground. A defensive concrete wall topped with barbed wire screened the view of the beach.

  Seidel’s Kübelwagen was parked alone on the empty forecourt. He switched on the shaded headlamps, started the engine and executed a sweeping loop over the wet asphalt. Graf put his hand out of the side and felt the spray.

  Seidel said, ‘There must have been some women at Peenemünde?’

  ‘Naturally. Hundreds.’

  ‘And? What were they like? Young? Old?’

  ‘Young mostly. Secretaries. Assistants. Some mathematicians. The senior engineers were allowed to bring their wives and children.’

  Seidel fell silent for a moment. ‘Are you married – do you mind if I ask?’

  ‘No. Are you?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’ He shot Graf a sideways look. ‘Do you think it matters if I go to a brothel?’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Seidel laughed. ‘If there were hundreds of women, even you, Graf, must have found one, surely?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Her name was Karin. She died in an air raid.’

  ‘Ah. I’m sorry.’

  Graf leaned out of the window and put his face into the breeze. In the month or more he had been in Holland, it was the first time he had mentioned her name.

  * * *

  —

  The RAF’s attempt to destroy Peenemünde, code-named Operation Hydra, was mounted in near-perfect conditions under a cloudless full moon on the night of 17–18 August 1943. At 11 p.m., eight Mosquitoes dropped target flares and two dozen bombs over Berlin to trick the Germans into believing the capital was to be the main focus of the attack. The Luftwaffe scrambled 150 fighters to meet the threat. While they searched the empty skies above the city, and 89 flak batteries fired more than 11,000 rounds at the imaginary attackers, just after midnight, 200 kilometres to the north, 600 heavy bombers crossed the coast.

  Peenemünde’s population that night was nearly twenty thousand: engineers, scientists and technicians with their families; mechanics, clerks, secretaries, typists, guards, cooks, teachers, construction workers and foreign slave labourers, mostly French and Russian. The evening of the raid, a Tuesday, had been hot and still. The slaves were locked in their wooden barrack huts behind electrified wire. The Germans strolled through the fragrant pine woods and sat on the sand. A game of volleyball was being played on the beach within sight of the rocket assembly building.

  Graf swam out and lay on his back with his feet pointing towards the setting sun, buoyed by the salinity of the water. He had only to rotate his arms occasionally to float without effort. The surface was warm after the long summer, but he could sense the great chilly depths beneath him, could feel the pull of the current carrying him eastwards out to sea, the motion of the waves flexing his body to their shape. He surrendered to the drift for as long as he dared, then rolled over and swam hard against the current, back towards the shore, where Karin, her slender figure haloed in his memory by the sunset, waited with a towel.

  He had met her in the spring. She was the new personal assistant to von Braun’s deputy, and Graf’s immediate superior, Dr Walter Thiel. Her duties covered everything from scheduling her irritable boss’s meetings to helping look after his two children. Everybody liked her; she was beautiful; she had a gift for spreading calm. When he asked her out and she accepted, he was amazed. After the war, she wanted to teach kindergarten. She was twenty-three. He had already decided he wanted to marry her, was intending to ask her – might have done so that night, in fact, if things had gone differently. But she hated it when he swam out so far and her anxiety had put her in a rare bad mood.

  He emerged dripping and breathless. She handed him the towel, turned away with a frown and went back up the beach to pack away their picnic. He changed out of his trunks beneath the towel, wobbling first on one leg, then the other. A brief kiss on her warm cheek, a last taste of salt from the sea, and abruptly she was gone, walking in the direction of the old pre-war hotel where most of the single women lived.

  Irritated, his good mood spoilt, Graf made his way back along the forest road in the humid twilight, through the security gate to the Experimental Works compound. His bachelor apartment, one of a dozen allotted to senior engineers, including von Braun, was on the second floor of Building 5, next to the main offices. He showered in cold water in an effort to cool off, draped his trunks on the bathroom windowsill to dry, and lay naked on his bed under a single sheet.

  He had expected an enemy air raid sooner or later. Several times that summer he had looked up and seen a thin line of vapour, like the scratch of a fingernail, high in the cloudless cobalt blue. He suspected they were being photographed by the British. Even so, when the air raid siren woke him just after midnight, his first instinct was to stay in bed, listening out for the usual drone of the enemy formations as they streamed overhead down ‘Berlin Alle
y’ on their way to bomb the capital. He waited for the all-clear. Minutes passed. Then came the rapid thump-thump-thump of anti-aircraft fire. He sprang out of bed and went to the window. The full moon was brilliant. In its quicksilver flood, the buildings cast sharp shadows. Beyond the workshops and laboratories, a spray of multicoloured flak was rising from the harbour battery like a strand of glass beads. Strange configurations of lights – red, green, yellow – seemed to hang in the sky like Christmas decorations. White flares descended slowly by parachute. Machine-gun fire rattled from the rooftops. It all seemed to be happening towards the south of the island. He watched for a while, then it occurred to him he ought to get to a shelter. He was still pulling on his shoes when a huge detonation blew out the window where he had been standing a moment before.

  He ran along the corridor of the apartment block and down the stairs. The front door lay across the steps, blown off its hinges by an aerial mine. It rose and fell like a see-saw as he stepped across it into the swirling rosy fog created by the artificial smoke screens. The scene was surreal, dreamlike. Here and there the chemical gauze flickered pink and red from the burning buildings. The full moon seemed to be hurtling through gaps in the mist. He could see a wash of stars, the brilliant narrow beams of the searchlights duelling across the sky. The bombers were invisible, but he could hear their heavy engines, very low and loud, in between the deafening crashes of explosions shaking the ground. Shadowy figures ran past him in panic. For perhaps a minute, he stood transfixed, as if he were merely a member of the audience at some fantastical son et lumière. Only when he became aware of the intense heat did his residual fear of an explosion bring him to his senses. He set off quickly down the street, around the corner, towards the air raid shelter.

  At the bottom of the steps, in the low concrete chamber, a dozen figures crouched around the walls. It was newly dug out; it stank of lime. The overhead lamp swung with each detonation. The light flickered. He recognised the faces of some of the engineers. Nobody was speaking. They were looking at the floor. Gradually the time between the explosions became longer, and after five minutes of silence, Graf decided to go in search of Karin.

  In the bright moonlight he could see that the headquarters building had been destroyed, and the design block and the mess hall, but the wind tunnel and the telemetry labs were untouched. He went out through the security gate and set off down the road. It was covered by fine white sand, as if a storm had passed through. He could still hear a lot of aeroplanes overhead. Tiny pieces of aircraft debris, shrapnel fragments and spent bullet casings were pattering like hailstones across the road and through the trees. A Lancaster bomber with one of its engines trailing fire streaked low across the sky and disappeared in the direction of the sea. One of the rocket storage buildings in the production area was in flames. But it was the accommodation buildings that seemed to have been worst hit. Parts of the housing estate and the slave labour camp were on fire. Several hundred prisoners in their striped uniforms were sitting in a field beside the road with their hands on their heads, guarded by SS men with machine guns.

  As soon as he reached the compound where Karin lived, he knew she must be dead. The big hotel was windowless, roofless, gutted. A row of corpses, some badly charred, lined the path. He steeled himself to look at the faces but there was no one he knew. Perhaps she was alive after all. People were wandering around. ‘Karin Hahn, have you seen her? Has anyone seen Karin Hahn?’ He stood with his hands on his hips and tried to think what she would have done when the bombs began to drop, where she might have gone. He retraced his steps back towards the housing estate.

  ‘I need to find Dr Thiel. Is the Thiel family safe, does anyone know?’

  He found them ten minutes later, laid out in the school hall. Their house, he discovered afterwards, had suffered a direct hit. The slit trench in front of it where they had been sheltering was a crater. They had been buried alive in the soft sandy soil. Thiel looked different without his glasses, but unlike the bodies in the women’s camp he at least seemed peaceful, and mercifully undisfigured. So too did Martha Thiel, and their children, Sigrid and Siegfried; and so, lying a little way apart from them, her head tilted slightly quizzically to one side in a mannerism he knew well, did Karin.

  * * *

  —

  They stopped at the checkpoint that guarded the entrance to the Wassenaar street and waited with the engine running. An SS man shone his torch in their faces and then onto their identity papers. When he returned them, he gave a slight wink. ‘Have a good evening.’ Another guard raised the barrier.

  Graf was beginning to regret the whole undertaking. He would have suggested abandoning it. But Seidel was like a hunting dog who had picked up a scent. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, his head hunched over the steering wheel, straining his eyes to follow the unmarked cobbled road. Each time they came to a house, he would slow and take a quick glance at it. He muttered to himself, ‘It’s so damn easy to miss in the blackout…’

  Behind their gates and overgrown hedges, the mansions succeeded one another – silent, dark, abandoned – each quite different: some rustic, some modern, a few elaborate, like mini-Versailles. There was a lot of money here, Graf thought. Decades of it; centuries, probably. He said, ‘I’m surprised they haven’t been looted.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. One of my men got caught with a Vermeer under his bed. A fucking Vermeer, for God’s sake! They sent him to a punishment battalion on the Eastern Front.’

  ‘Isn’t that a death sentence?’

  ‘As good as. Discipline, my dear Graf. Discipline! The army’s very keen on protecting local property; local people – less so. Ah, here it is!’

  He swung the steering wheel and they turned into a gravel drive. The house, so far as Graf could make it out in the weak headlights, was nineteenth century – square, three storeys, built in the French style, with shutters and a high roof. A couple of staff cars were parked in front of the door. Drifts of leaves had piled up around the entrance. The windows were blacked out, and when Seidel turned off the engine, there was a deep silence.

  ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

  ‘Of course. Are you still up for it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He followed the lieutenant up the steps. Seidel rang the bell. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed open the heavy door. They stepped into a large hall, dimly lit by red-shaded lamps. A staircase rose straight ahead. Doors on either side of the passage. A faint sound of music somewhere. Graf suddenly wondered if he had brought enough money. ‘How much does this cost, by the way?’

  ‘A hundred. Plus a tip for the girl. Or girls.’

  One of the doors opened and a woman emerged – forties, plump, dark-haired. Her freckled breasts strained against a low-cut black velvet dress. Graf removed his hat politely. She recognised Seidel, or pretended to, and threw out her hands. ‘Lieutenant! So good to see you again! A kiss for Madam Ilse.’ Her German was thickly flavoured with an Eastern European accent Graf couldn’t place. She proffered her face to Seidel. He kissed her twice, on either cheek, as if she were his aunt. ‘And who is this?’

  ‘This is my friend, the doctor.’

  ‘A doctor! Let me take your coat,’ she said to Graf. He unbuttoned it and handed it to her, together with his hat. Seidel gave her his cap. She hung them carefully on a rack. There were five other caps, Graf noticed – three grey Wehrmacht, two black SS – and a leather greatcoat. ‘So! Come.’

  She led them through a door into a bar. Thick strata of cigarette smoke hung motionless in the reddish half-light. A gramophone was playing a sentimental song by Mimi Thoma. Four or five men sprawled in comfortable chairs, booted legs outstretched, their jackets open, smoking. A couple of girls perched on the arms of their chairs. An SS man, his chin on his chest, appeared to have passed out on the sofa with his arms around two women, one on either side of him, who were whispering beh
ind his head. There were more women in a huddle around the bar. A waitress, naked from the waist up, carried a tray of empty glasses. Ilse showed them to a shadowy corner where a pair of armchairs faced one another, and beckoned to the waitress.

  ‘What will you drink?’

  Seidel said, ‘Do you have cognac?’

  ‘Of course we have cognac.’ She sounded affronted.

  ‘You see,’ he said to Graf, ‘we were right to come.’

  ‘Cognac,’ said Ilse. The waitress moved away. ‘Have you had a chance to look yet? Do you find anyone to your liking?’

  Graf glanced around. He couldn’t see the girl from the wood. Seidel said, ‘That redhead, Marta – is she still here?’

  ‘I’ll see if she’s free. And your friend?’ she said, turning to Graf. ‘What is the doctor looking for?’

  He was straining his eyes at the bar. ‘A blonde. Young. Quite small.’

  Seidel laughed. ‘You’re a deep one, Graf! Do you have a shoe size you prefer?’

  The madam nodded judiciously. ‘I believe I have the perfect girl.’

  She went over to the bar. Seidel took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Graf. The cognac came. Graf downed his straight and held out his glass for another. They sat back in their chairs. The lieutenant closed his eyes and conducted the music with his forefinger. He started to sing along with Mimi Thoma. Sleep, darling, sleep, and dream a fairy tale…

  Ilse returned with a tall young woman with curly copper-coloured hair, who made an effort to seem pleased to see Seidel. Behind her, tiny in comparison, was a doll-like girl dressed in a sleeveless tight red satin sheath. Her scarlet lipstick and heavy mascara rendered her almost unrecognisable. The moment she saw Graf, her professional smile vanished. She stopped, and swayed back slightly on her high heels. Marta climbed into Seidel’s lap and put her arms around his neck. Ilse steered the blonde girl forward by the shoulders, like a mother presenting a child for inspection. ‘This is Femke.’ Graf stood. ‘See how polite he is, sweetheart,’ she murmured into her ear, ‘a real gentleman! Look at the way he’s staring at you – I can tell he likes you. Why don’t you take him upstairs?’