by Michael Dean
‘Yes, sir. I do.’
‘Good. Then you do it.’
Carpenter smiled and left.
‘Come on, John. Let’s go get something to eat. But first I’ll give you a guided tour of this luxurious establishment.’
Lindsay showed Hodge the American Way Services Club. Some of the off-duty GIs were playing pool, table-tennis or listening to jazz. Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue was playing.
A lot of the GIs greeted Lindsay, who was obviously well-liked. They were curious about Hodge in his British uniform. Massive men, some black, some white, smiled at him, some shyly saying ‘Hi’ or ‘Welcome, sir,’ or ‘Hello, sir, you visiting?’
There were some German girls in, dancing with the GIs to the jazz. Lindsay saw Hodge notice them.
‘Officially, John, “fratting” as they call it, fraternization with the Germans, is forbidden. Especially with the furlines, as we call their women. But it’s unenforceable so I don’t try to enforce it.’
Hodge nodded. ‘Glad to hear it.’
Lindsay nodded. ‘Mind you after what the French did to them, it will be a while before the furlines trust us.’
Hodge was surprised. ‘What did the French do?’
‘April 21st through 30th, just that one period, 1,389 notified rapes by French troops. 122 women raped twice, 51 three times. Victims included girls under fourteen and women over seventy.’
‘That is … sickening.’
‘Tell me about it. I have a wife back home who I love very much. And two daughters. I hate rape above near all else. It’s moral murder.’
Hodge nodded.
‘Come on, John. Let’s get some chow before it all goes cold.’
They ate in the canteen. There was no separate area for officers, Hodge noticed. No class distinction. Once again, the GIs appeared pleased to see Lindsay, some even calling out ‘Enjoy your meal, sir.’ And just one ‘Guten Appetit, Captain’ from a grinning sergeant.
‘You speak, German?’ Hodge asked, as they tucked into hamburger and French fries.
‘Not a word. You?’
‘Same.’
Lindsay looked at him quizzically. ‘Then how are you going to hunt down a Nazi?’
Hodge shook his head, ruefully. ‘I don’t know.’ He raised his glass of Coca Cola, ironically. ‘Cheers.’
Lindsay continued to look at him, head on one side. They were silent for a while, eating. Then Lindsay said. ‘I have an idea. You can’t go out there without a word of German. We’ll swing by the civil authority …’
‘The what?’
‘The German police. Wilhelm Keil cleared them first in the de-Nazification process. Now some of them help us de-Nazify the rest. I’ll see if we can find you a German cop who speaks English.’
‘Thank you. That would be a big help. Have you encountered much Nazi activity, still? ’
‘Some.’ Lindsay chewed thoughtfully. ‘As you likely know, Hitler had them all fight on to the death.’
‘I’ve heard about the Volksturm.’
‘Yeah, but they were just a broom-handle army. Men over seventy, kids of twelve. They are no trouble, any more, give or take the occasional road block. No, what’s tying up our manpower, John, is we have a Werwolf group here.’
‘What’s that?’
Lindsay chewed on, and then swallowed. ‘On 1st April German radio put out a call for guerrilla resistance to occupying troops. Their newspaper, the NS Kurier, actually appeared with a Werwolf sign on April 18th and April 20th.’
‘What does that look like?’ Hodge asked.
‘The Werwolf symbol? I can show you if you want. We keep copies of the Kurier.’
Back in his office, Lindsay opened a large sliding drawer in a gunmetal filing cabinet near his desk. He searched through a file of newspapers.
‘Yuh. Here it is.’
He passed the April 18th edition of the NS Kurier to Hodge. Next to the masthead was a jagged symbol, one long line and three short ones running off it. It looked like a stylised, collapsed swastika.
‘Mind if I make a copy of this symbol?
‘Be my guest.’
Hodge pulled out his notebook and a pencil and carefully copied the symbol. ‘Thanks.’
‘A lot of anti-Nazis were murdered around that time, end April beginning of May, around the time we took over. Werwolf attacked some of the people who hung out white flags or sheets for us, as we marched in. And they had a last crack at the Jews. A harmless old lady called Else Josenhans. About the last thing the Gestapo did before they ran for it was murder her. Big brave guys, huh?’
‘And now?’ said Hodge grimly.
‘End April, Werwolf blew up a large bridge over the Neckar, the main river here. The bridge from Neckarrems to Neckargröningen. They were trying to disrupt our supplies.’
‘Good Lord! Did you get them?’
‘We have not yet managed to identify them. We floated pontoons over the Neckar and we are rebuilding the bridge.’
‘It sounds as if they are still very active.’
Lindsay shrugged. ‘We had two attempts to dynamite the water supply and an electricity sub-station. We beat them off but everything we do has to have heavy guards. It takes up a lot of manpower. We also had one soldier killed. He was knifed from behind.’
‘I’m sorry. Truly.’
‘Yeah, me too. I had to notify his family. They live less than twenty miles from my family. Nyack, New York.’
‘Do you have any leads on Werwolf, at all?’
Lindsay shrugged heavily, again sounding very tired. ‘We have their leader in prison, out in Kornwestheim, a few miles from here. For all the good it does us. He still runs the show from his cell.’
‘How is he able to…?’
‘John, I have one lousy detachment here. I keep telling you. We have to use local national guards at all the prisons.’
Hodge was annoyed with himself. ‘Yup! OK. What’s the Werwolf leader’s name?’
‘He is General Kurt Hoffmann. He was in charge of their 465 Reserve Brigade. They fought valiantly enough against the French and us.’
Hodge made a note of Hoffmann’s name in his notebook, under his drawing of the Werewolf symbol.
Lindsay went on, reminiscing, willingly enough, about the last days of organised Nazi resistance. ‘The mayor of Stuttgart, guy called Strölin, resisted the Nero order. You know Hitler’s last order to destroy everything? He’s no hero, this Strölin guy. He was a Nazi too, but after Adolf called it a day he didn’t see why his city should be reduced to rubble. Which is why some of it isn’t. Hoffmann, however, didn’t see it that way.’
‘If Karl Wagner is in Ludwigsburg, as we believe, what are the chances he’s linked up with Werwolf?’
‘Around 100% I should think. That’s why I’m telling you all this, though maybe I shouldn’t.’ Lindsay stared at the Englishman. ‘You get me one sniff of evidence that your guy is, first off, actually in Ludwigsburg and, second, hooked up with Werwolf and I can let you have troopers. OK?’
‘OK. Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. And meanwhile we rebuild their city while they carry on trying to tear it all down. Go figure.’
Chapter 5
Ludwigsburg Saturday August 18, 1945
The police station was in what Lindsay referred to as the main drag, Wilhelmstrasse, just off the central square, the Marktplatz. As Lindsay drove there at breakneck speed in his jeep, Hodge thought the little baroque town, with its palace, its graceful squares and eighteenth century churches was every bit as pretty as Palfrey had indicated.
Lindsay parked the jeep outside the police station and they burst in, their boots thudding on the wooden floor. Lindsay seemed to know the two green-uniformed German police, who were over fifty years old, like every other German official Hodge had so far encountered.
Lindsay came straight to the point. ‘Hi. Herr Kramer, isn’t it? And Herr Ströhle. Right? I’m looking for someone to translate for my English colleague here. Who speaks the bes
t English in this place?’
A young woman came out of the back office carrying files. This one was even prettier than the woman at the airport. She had the same long black hair. Her nose was thick and very straight but that did not detract from her beauty. On the contrary, Hodge thought, the flaw made her even more desirable. Her brown eyes were lustrous and she had the creamiest complexion Hodge had ever seen.
Their eyes met as she spoke. She clearly took in his film-star looks, the lovely eyes widening a little.
‘I do, Captain Lindsay,’ she spoke in clear German-accented English. ‘I speak the best English, by quite a long way actually.’
‘And how is that, Miss?’ Lindsay replied, gruffly.
‘I was good at it at school. The best in the class. Then we listened to the BBC in the war, so I didn’t forget it. Now I give English lessons from home. And German lessons, too.’
‘Hey!’ Lindsay said. ‘You the one who gives German lessons to some of my men?’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘You live in Stuttgarterstrasse, right?’
‘Correct!’
Once again, Hodge was astounded at Lindsay’s grasp of detail.
‘My men speak well of you. Have you been cleared, young lady?’
‘De-Nazified, you mean? Not formally. They haven’t done women of my age yet. Didn’t you know that, Captain Lindsay?’ She spoke teasingly. Hodge was pleased to see Lindsay fallible, for once. The young woman went on. ‘But you don’t have to worry about that. The Nazis made my father’s life a hell. They broke his spirit. I hate them.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lindsay said.
‘Me too,’ said Hodge. ‘Miss, do you know a man called Karl Wagner?’
She looked at Hodge coolly with those amazing eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘OK, John.’ Lindsay said. ‘Looks like you found your helper. You want to help this man catch a Nazi, Miss?’
‘Yes. Very much.’
‘Good. What’s your name?’
‘Barbara Ketz.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Hodge said.
*
Next day, Hodge collected Barbara Ketz from outside her apartment block in Stuttgarterstrasse in the jeep with ‘US Army’ painted in white on the side. Barbara had insisted on waiting outside. He did not try to countermand her instruction. If she did want him to come into her home, that was fine with him.
The August day was cloudy, humid and not as warm as London would have been, but even so Hodge was surprised that Barbara was wearing a coat over her flower-pattern summer dress. Her jungle of long black hair was tucked inside its collar. She was carrying a large, battered black handbag which looked heavy.
She got into the jeep while the engine was still running and stared straight ahead. No word of greeting. Hodge pulled away from the kerb.
‘Do you mind navigating?’ Hodge said. ‘It looks pretty straightforward to Kornwestheim but even so I’ve never driven a jeep or ever driven on the other side of the …’
‘Yes. I know the way.’
If you need it, there’s a map on that shelf there. Under the dashboard.’
She nodded impatiently, staring out of the jeep away from him, not reaching for the map. After a moment or so, she tilted her head back, clearly relishing the air, made cool by the speed, blowing in her face and in her hair. He wondered when she had last been in a vehicle of any sort.
The high, grubby, concrete-faced blocks of flats quickly gave way to countryside as he headed south before finding a turn to the west, to Kornwestheim, a journey of ten miles or so.
Hodge reviewed his plan in his mind, for the umpteenth time. The only lead he had in finding Karl Wagner and the nine paintings by Jewish artists was General Kurt Hoffmann. Lindsay was sure Hoffmann was running Werwolf from his cell in the internment camp in Kornwestheim. This meant some of the staff at the camp were helping him.
Lindsay had interviewed Hoffmann before. He had also interviewed all the guards, clerical staff and cleaners at the camp. But Lindsay had used the commander’s office to question staff, guarded by German guards who would themselves be next up for interview. Short of men in the prevailing chaos, he had had little choice.
Hodge went over what he intended to do. This time, he had arranged for all the interviews to be conducted out of the hearing of anybody else. He had spoken to the US commander at Hindenburg Internment Camp, a Lieutenant Bradley, and made arrangements for the questioning to take place in the gym, where the guards could watch but not hear what was being said. He decided to tell Barbara Ketz the rest of his plan when they arrived. He did not want her to have too long to think about it and perhaps get nervous.
By now, they were out in the country. In the distance, Hodge could see vineyards on the steep slopes.
He nodded his head at them. ‘So, there’ll be a wine harvest this year?’
Barbara nodded, too. ‘Yes, next month. Maybe October.’
The following silence in the jeep was echoed by the empty fields around them. A jeep identical to Hodge’s passed them going the other way, with a uniformed driver and two American officers in the back.
Most of the traffic was bicycles. Hodge was surprised to see two bicycle-riders with gasmasks strapped to their backs. Another bicycle had a cardboard notice tied to the saddle. It was flapping against the back mudguard as the woman rode it.
‘What does the sign say?’ Hodge asked. ‘Is the bicycle for sale?’
‘No. It says “I am a refugee bicycle. Please do not steal me.”’
Hodge smiled. He was even more surprised, further along the road, to find a bus puttering toward them, packed with people.
‘So there’s enough petrol for transport now?’ he said, wanting to sound upbeat, making conversation.
Barbara shrugged. ‘Not really. It’s using Holzgas. What do you say for that? Wood gas?’
‘Probably, I’m not …’
‘You’re not a technical person.’
He laughed, uneasily. ‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘It’s obvious. Have you learned a word of German, yet?’
‘Well, I …’
‘No. You can understand only exactly what you have heard, or read in books. You are either lazy or stupid. It comes to the same thing.’
Hodge bit back the retort in his head ‘you hardly know me,’ as too obvious and a bit pathetic. And in any case they would be working together within the hour. So she was hostile. But maybe she had a lot to be hostile about. He resolved to be patient.
He treated himself to a sideways glance at her, still turned away from him, mummified in that coat. The wait, he thought, would be worth it.
As Hodge turned onto a B road signposted to Kornwestheim, he saw a straggling line of women, all dragging handcarts, some with packs on their backs as well. All of them, like Barbara Ketz, were wearing coats in the summer heat.
‘Why are they all wearing coats?’ Hodge asked.
Barbara shrugged. ‘When you are hungry, you feel the cold. Also to keep everything close in case it gets stolen.’
‘I see.’ Hodge nodded at the women. ‘Are they refugees? DPs?’
Barbara gave a faint smile at his use of the obviously newly-learned term. To his relief the question appeared to animate her.
‘No, they are local women. I know some of them by sight. They are hamsters. We call them hamsters, at any rate. They are taking their possessions to the farmers to exchange for food. They walk for miles to do it.’
‘So the farmers have enough?’
She sighed. ‘The farmers always have enough. You see that woman there. The one with the sewing machine, she is probably going to a … Tauschbörse we call it, an Exchange Market. I think there is one in Kornwestheim today.’
‘As organised as that, eh?’ He smiled at her.
She made a moue, almost a wince, back. ‘Oh, yes, we are very organised people. Even in defeat when we have nothing left to organise.’
There was further evidence of German organisation as they turned int
o the suburbs of Kornwestheim. A chain of women mainly but a few men were clearing the rubble from bomb-shattered shops and houses. Larger stones were passed from hand to hand before being carried away in a solitary wheelbarrow. The smaller stones were heaped to await the wheelbarrow’s availability.
‘When was the raid that did that?’ Hodge asked, expecting an answer measured in years.
‘In March.’
‘What? March this year?’
‘Correct. Most of the bombs fell in fields. I understand from the radio that other cities in Germany had it worse than us. Berlin of course. Hamburg. Dresden. But also Munich.’
Hodge felt a pang of sympathy but fought it down. What would have happened if the Nazis had won? Were they supposed to fight with one hand behind their backs against the regime that created Buchenwald and Bergen-Belsen?
Barbara appeared to read his mind. ‘Yes, yes, yes. You were right to bomb us. We deserved it.’
‘The Nazis deserved it,’ he said, softly.
‘Thank you,’ she said, so quietly he only just heard it.
They passed a woman clearing rubble with a piece of cardboard round her neck. The cardboard had writing in gothic script on it, like the notice on the bicycle they had seen earlier.
‘What does this one say?’ Hodge asked.
‘She says she does not want to be alone,’ Barbara said. ‘It’s an invitation. Many women make such invitations. Do you want to stop and join her?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Really? She’s quite pretty, I think. And I think you like women.’
Hodge made no reply.
At the end of the bombed street there was a crowd of women clustered round a shop. It was a butcher’s shop, about to open, although it was Sunday. The women all had serious, intent, faces. And they all had long hair, like Barbara. It occurred to Hodge that hairdressers would have been in short supply. Or perhaps the Veronica Lake hairstyle, all the rage in London, had found its way here, too.
Further along the road, a US army half-track manned by Pioneer Corps was clearing earth. There were American soldiers with rifles at the points of the compass, guarding the pioneers.
