The Doomsday Decree

by Peter MacAlan

  When they arrived at the villa, Paul saw that the occasion was going to be just the sort of affair he had anticipated. The friends and hangers-on of the local Party boss were much in evidence. Numerous SS men of varying rank crowded the reception rooms of the villa with young, gaudy-looking women on their arms, and several prominent city officials were present.

  Schoerner greeted Ilse with a leering familiarity which annoyed Paul but which he was forced to ignore. Then the Party boss turned to him and patted his shoulder affably.

  ‘Ah! Our little Ilse’s doctor friend, eh? How is my good friend Rausser?’

  Otto Rausser was the director of the hospital. A political appointee. Paul was not one of the hospital elite and thus had no daily contact with the director. However, he smiled politely at Schoerner and said, ‘I believe him to be very well, Herr Schoerner.’

  Schoerner patted him on the shoulder again with a pudgy hand and moved on, throwing over his shoulder: ‘Enjoy yourselves. You probably know everyone.’

  Paul saw many bottles of champagne in evidence, genuine pre-war champagne if the labels were anything to go by. There was also a good supply of Heidsieck ’38 and ’39. Paul had time to drink one glass before Ilse demanded a dance. The villa was overflowing with people. A band, supplied by some local Waffen-SS unit, was pounding out the latest dance tunes while a bedlam of high-pitched conversation and laughter rose throughout the rooms. Paul regarded his surroundings with disapproval. It seemed so false; bizarre in fact. A few hours ago bombers had rained down death and destruction on the city. People — old men, women, children as well as soldiers — had been maimed or killed, blown apart while fat, indolent bastards like Schoerner … He bit his lip to suppress his anger.

  Ilse saw his expression and pouted. ‘What’s up, Paul?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said quietly.

  Ilse’s lips compressed. ‘I know by now when you are sulking. What is it?’

  He sighed. ‘I attend this type of thing out of duty but I hate it.’

  Ilse sniffed in disapproval. ‘When I first met you I thought you liked enjoying yourself. You can be a grouch at times.’

  ‘I can’t believe you call this enjoyment, Ilse,’ Paul replied. ‘These are not your sort of people.’

  ‘They’re the people who matter,’ Ilse snapped.

  Paul frowned. He had come to know that Ilse was in no way political. He would, of course, never mention the Widerstand to her. She lived for the moment, and in many ways was completely hedonistic in her attitude to life.

  ‘Is that why you are with them, because they matter?’ he said softly.

  ‘If you want to get on in life then you have to associate with the people who can help you.’

  ‘It depends on what kind of help you want. Anyway, what do you want to be, Ilse? How do you interpret “getting on in life”?’

  ‘I want to be … rich.’

  Paul sniffed. ‘Well, you won’t get rich with a simple doctor like me.’

  She looked at him seriously. ‘You can become a top surgeon. All you need is political patronage.’

  ‘Oh?’ Paul grimaced sarcastically. ‘I thought what I needed was ability and experience.’

  ‘Schoerner could give you political patronage. That’s all it takes. Why don’t you be nice to him?’

  ‘Nice?’ Paul flushed angrily. ‘And are you being nice to him, then?’

  ‘Bastard!’ hissed Ilse, pushing him away and turning to make her way from the dance-floor.

  Paul gazed after her a moment, hesitating, then turned and grabbed a glass of Heidsieck from a passing waiter, downing it in one enormous swallow.

  There was a commotion at the door as an SS Brigadeführer arrived. Paul’s eyes narrowed as Schoerner hurried toward the officer with a beaming smile. The man was obviously someone of importance.

  ‘Heiden! Is it true you’ve just arrived from Berlin?’

  The coarse voice of the Party boss cut through the din of music and conversation. Several heads turned and the Brigadeführer frowned in annoyance at Schoerner and his alcohol-induced enthusiasm. He said something quietly to the bull-necked man. Schoerner flushed, but made no reply. Several people had gathered round.

  ‘Is it true about the bombing in Berlin, Herr Brigadeführer?’ one officer was demanding. ‘They say that the Allies have started bombing the city day and night.’

  ‘My wife is still in Berlin,’ said another. ‘How bad is it?’

  The Brigadeführer held up a hand to forestall any more questions. ‘I can only confirm that Berlin has been bombed like most other cities of the Reich. But that is all I can say.’

  He turned deliberately, linking arms with Schoerner, and led him away into a private room.

  Paul wondered how bad things really were in the capital. The underground news was that the Soviets had already overrun most of East Prussia and that three entire German armies had been annihilated there — no less than 40 full divisions.

  He looked back at the dance floor and saw Ilse dancing with a young SS officer. Swearing softly under his breath, he went to find a quiet corner where he could get drunk in peace.

  It was half an hour later when Ilse found him. ‘All right, Paul,’ she said penitently. ‘If you want to go, let’s go.’

  Paul took her arm without speaking and guided her through the crowd to the door. In silence they found their driver and rode back to their apartment. Only in the apartment did Ilse say: ‘I think you are wrong, Paul. You are a good doctor, and you do have ability. But ability doesn’t count for anything in this world unless you have friends in the right places.’

  She moved closer to him. ‘Don’t you see, Paul? I am trying to help you. A word in the right quarter and you could find yourself in a good position.’

  Paul sighed, almost in sorrow, and took both her hands in his. ‘Ilse, of course I believe that you are doing your best for me. But don’t you see? This world of ours is coming to an end. Soon, perhaps only weeks, certainly no longer than a few months. Then there will be no Third Reich, let alone people like Schoerner exercising power.’

  Ilse looked shocked. ‘Sssh!’ she hissed, glancing about her as if expecting someone to materialize out of the cupboards. ‘That’s defeatist talk. You can be hanged for that.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it any less the truth.’

  Ilse stamped her foot, but it was an expression of fear more than anger. ‘It’s not true, Paul. The Führer has promised us victory. We shall succeed.’

  Paul stared at her, seeing her trembling lip, and realized that the girl was close to hysteria. Like most of her generation she had been brought up to believe in the total infallibility of the Führer. Had he not led the German people to victory after victory? Had he not kept his promises? From the economic ruins of the Weimar Republic, from a bankrupt state with unthinkable unemployment, the Führer had led his people to world power. And now …

  Paul smiled softly and held Ilse close. ‘You poor child,’ he murmured. ‘It will be all right. Don’t you worry about a thing.’

  Chapter Five

  It was just before nine o’clock when Paul entered the hospital, greeted old Weiss and went to his office. The tannoy system was on and the raucous tones of the Führer himself were blaring throughout the hospital in a rambling, incoherent speech.

  ‘What our enemies are fighting for, only the Jews among them can tell; what we are fighting for is quite plain. It is the preservation of German man, of our homeland, of our two-thousand-year-old culture, of our nation’s children and grandchildren.’

  Paul’s lips compressed. As if there were not enough problems in quietening patients and nursing the sick back to health without the Führer’s harsh outpourings of hate disturbing their peace. Rausser, the director, nevertheless insisted on broadcasting all the Führer’s radio speeches throughout the hospital.

  ‘The donation of clothing and equipment is just another sacrifice asked of the German nation for its soldiers.’

  Paul frowned at the Führ
er’s abrupt change of thought.

  ‘I therefore decree that anyone misappropriating goods donated or intended for collection or in any way preventing such goods from reaching their destination will be sentenced to death. This decree takes effect from this broadcast!’

  Hitler’s voice had an hysterical edge to it. For half an hour, as Paul tried to cope with the hospital paperwork, the speech rambled on in a series of incoherent thoughts and ideas. Finally the voice slowed, hesitated and stopped. Martial music cut in. In fact, this 30 January speech was to be the Führer’s last broadcast to his people. Josef Goebbels had to do much to dissuade his demented leader from broadcasting again. That he was successful was a remarkable achievement. The truth of exactly how far out of mental control Adolf Hitler was had to be kept from the people for as long as possible.

  Just before ten o’clock Paul made his way to the top floor, on which the isolation unit was situated. At the entrance a bored-looking male nurse sat behind a desk. He saw Paul and came to his feet.

  ‘Good morning, Herr Doctor.’

  ‘Room seven,’ Paul said.

  The nurse frowned slightly. ‘Seven?’

  Paul nodded irritably, puzzled by the man’s stupid expression.

  ‘But there is no one in room seven, Herr Doctor. Are you sure you have the right number?’

  Paul was astonished. He was certain Gottfried had told him that his patient was in room seven. ‘Perhaps not. Doctor Klaus asked me to check one of his patients. I thought he said room seven. Never mind. Which room is it?’

  The nurse’s eyes widened. ‘Doctor Klaus has no patient in isolation.’

  Paul pressed his lips together in annoyance. ‘Check your admissions ledger,’ he said, as if he were speaking to a half-wit. ‘The patient was an SS corporal, brought in yesterday with a fever.’

  The nurse bent to the ledger and then shrugged. ‘There is no record of any admission to isolation yesterday.’

  Paul’s mouth fell open. ‘May I see?’ he asked, taking the book from the nurse’s hands and running an eye through the entries. He was astonished. There were only three patients in isolation and none of them were under the care of Gottfried Klaus. Two of them were women, suspected typhus cases. The third was a young boy of fifteen, also a typhus case. There was no SS Sturmann among them. There must be some mistake.

  ‘Could someone get into isolation without registration in the ledger?’

  The nurse looked scandalized. ‘Everyone has to go through the procedures, Herr Doctor. Rules are rules.’

  Paul glanced at his watch. Gottfried was supposed to meet him here as well. He was late. ‘Can I see room seven?’

  The nurse gave a long-suffering sigh and took some keys from his pocket. He preceded Paul along a corridor and halted before a door marked with the number 7. Paul looked in. The room was bare, lacking even a bed and cupboards. He was bewildered now. ‘Doctor Klaus was going to meet me here. I don’t suppose he has been here this morning?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Doctor Klaus since the day before yesterday.’

  Paul was even more bewildered. ‘Do you mean that Doctor Klaus was not in isolation at all yesterday?’

  ‘Ah, that I wouldn’t know. It was my day off.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t know for a fact whether a patient was admitted to isolation yesterday?’

  The nurse looked woodenly at Paul. ‘Yes, I would. The registration would have to be entered in the ledger.’

  Paul sighed. What the hell was going on? Was Gottfried playing some silly trick on him? Surely that was not in Gottfried’s character! He turned, made his way down to the administration floor and went straight to the small office used by Gottfried, bursting in without knocking.

  An elderly, bald-headed man in a doctor’s coat peered up at him in annoyance from behind Gottfried’s desk. Paul stood dumbfounded.

  ‘Really!’ snapped the man, gazing at him through spectacles that gave him an owl-like appearance.

  ‘Where is Doctor Klaus?’ Paul finally blurted out.

  ‘Who?’ The elderly man was clearly irritated.

  ‘Doctor Gottfried Klaus,’ Paul repeated slowly and distinctly. ‘You are in his office.’

  The man stared at Paul as if he were mad.

  ‘On the contrary, I am in my office. I’ve never heard of your Doctor Klaus. My name is Doctor Rumpel.’

  Paul hesitated, his mind in a whirl of confused thoughts. He turned without another word and strode away in search of the matron. He could not find her and eventually made his way to the door of the hospital administrator. He knocked and entered.

  Director Otto Rausser, a thick-set man running to fat around his heavy jowls, his protruding belly straining against his brown Party uniform, frowned in annoyance.

  ‘Doctor Horder, isn’t it? What do you want? I am very busy.’

  ‘It is quite simple, Herr Director. I am looking for Doctor Klaus.’

  For a moment, Rausser’s dark eyes became hooded. He seemed to consider his reply before speaking. ‘Doctor Klaus?’

  ‘He is not in his office and there is a Doctor Rumpel there who claims never to have heard of him.’

  Rausser smiled briefly. ‘There is no mystery, Herr Doctor. Rumpel has only joined our staff today, while Klaus has been transferred from this hospital. That is all,’

  ‘All?’ Paul stared at the director in total astonishment. ‘Transferred?’

  Rausser nodded.

  ‘Transferred where?’ Paul pressed.

  ‘That is not for me to say nor you to know, Horder,’ the director said abruptly. ‘Klaus is under orders, as we all are in this fight to save the Fatherland.’

  Paul pursed his lips. ‘Yesterday Doctor Klaus wanted me to see one of his patients, for a second opinion. The patient seems to have disappeared as well as Doctor Klaus.’

  Rausser’s eyes narrowed threateningly. ‘What precisely are you implying, Horder?’

  Paul spread his hands helplessly. ‘Doctor Klaus said there was a young SS corporal in isolation and asked me to examine him this morning.’

  ‘And?’ Rausser’s steely voice probed. ‘I went to isolation and there was no patient there who fitted Doctor Klaus’ description.’

  ‘You checked the isolation records, of course?’

  ‘Of course. No one fitting the description I was given has been registered.’

  Rausser’s face dissolved into a wreath of smiles. ‘My dear Horder, the matter is answered. I am not responsible for the practical jokes played by members of staff upon their fellows. It is obvious that Klaus was playing some kind of joke on you. That is the end to the matter.’

  Paul was about to press Rausser further, but something in the director’s manner made him hesitate.

  ‘Of course,’ Rausser said, waving a hand dismissively, ‘childish practical jokes have no place in a hospital in these times. Now … I am sure Klaus will be in touch with you when he has arrived at his new job.’

  The director bent his head to his papers.

  Frowning in mystification, Paul left the office. Gottfried Klaus transferred without contacting him, without even leaving him a note? That was strange. Neither was Gottfried the type of person to play a practical joke, let alone a joke connected with his job, which he took very seriously. Paul walked slowly back toward his own office, wondering what he should do.

  He was passing the records department when the thought crossed his mind to double-check the isolation records.

  There was a pretty young nurse on duty in the records department which was deserted apart from her. He was only passingly aware of her dark, almost russet red-brown hair, her fair skin, wide blue eyes and slim, attractive figure.

  ‘I want to see the records of the patients in isolation.’

  ‘Yes, doctor,’ replied the nurse primly. ‘Is there any special patient?’

  Paul hesitated. ‘No. Let’s have all the records.’

  A moment later the nurse presented him with three buff-coloured folders. He barely glanc
ed at them. They were for the two women and the young boy. He looked at the nurse. She was very attractive. Freckles lent a touch of innocence to her pleasant, evenly shaped features.

  ‘Did Doctor Klaus have a patient in isolation yesterday?’ he asked her. Was it his imagination or were those wide blue eyes suddenly wary?

  ‘Have you checked the isolation register, doctor?’ Her voice was soft, guarded.

  ‘Yes,’ Paul had to admit.

  ‘Then … ?’ The girl was prompting him.

  ‘I was sure Doctor Klaus had a young patient, an SS Sturmann, in isolation.’

  ‘Perhaps if you had a word with Doctor Klaus?’

  ‘Doctor Klaus has apparently been transferred from this hospital,’ snapped Paul.

  The girl seemed to hesitate. Just then the door of the records department opened and a tall, gaunt-looking man in a black leather coat and felt hat came in. Ignoring them, he took a seat in the far corner of the room and pulled out a copy of Volkischer Beobachter, the official Party newspaper.

  Paul noticed that the girl’s eyes seemed definitely frightened now.

  ‘That is the complete set of records, doctor,’ she said nervously.

  Was there a warning tone in her voice? Paul certainly realized that the newcomer was a Gestapo man. It was almost as if they wore a uniform. He gazed at the girl a moment longer, taking in her well-formed features; her determined, though not aggressive, chin. She was scooping the folders from the desk.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, nurse,’ Paul said quietly as he turned from the records department.

  Paul took a break from his ward duties at midday. By then he had decided to go to Gottfried’s apartment. It was not far away, perhaps fifteen minutes’ walk from the hospital. He was sure Gottfried would be able to supply some explanation. Certainly Gottfried could not have left for his new job, whatever it was. One could not instantly pack up a home of three years and transport his wife and two children to wherever the authorities had ordered him to go. Even if by some chance Gottfried himself had been sent on with such abruptness, then his wife Anna would be able to explain matters.