Darkness into Light Box Set

by Michael Dean

  ‘Do you know what they’re building, there?’ Hodge asked.

  Barbara gave a half-smile. ‘I think it will be a leisure centre,’ she said. ‘Just think of it. Leisure again,’ and then to herself in German ‘Gibt’s so was?’

  She looked over at his and translated, ‘Can there be such a thing?’

  Hodge caught himself feeling happy. And he knew the reason for that. He looked across at Barbara as he drove.

  She shut her eyes, aware of his gaze, letting him look.

  *

  The sign at the barracks, now converted into an internment camp, said ‘Hindenburgkaserne.’ Underneath it there was a stencilled sign saying ‘Hindenburg Barracks. Internment Camp 73’.

  Lindsay had told him that all the internees at Hindenburg were either former Waffen SS, high ranking Nazi Party officials or any other category deemed suitable for automatic arrest – the hard core, so to speak.

  His pass from Lindsay got them waved through quickly at the guardhouse. He made for a secluded corner of the car park reserved for US military vehicles. Then he cut the engine and turned to Barbara, to explain his plan. When he had finished, her eyes opened wide in alarm. She wrenched at the door handle, struggling to get out of the jeep.

  ‘Just a moment, please. I need to talk to you.’

  She was breathing heavily. ‘Why?’

  ‘Barbara, please. Relax.’

  ‘Alright.’

  Hodge pulled his notebook out of the top pocket of his uniform. He pulled a page out and gave it to her. ‘You need this when we do the interviews. Not Hoffmann, but all the others. And I’m going to give you two dates to remember. OK?’

  ‘OK.’ She looked at the page Hodge had given her.

  ‘Do you know what that is? That symbol?’

  Barbara shook her head.

  ‘Good. I’m glad you don’t. But if my idea works at least some of the people we will be questioning will know exactly what it is.’

  *

  Hodge had come to expect efficiency from the US Army, and Lieutenant Bradley did not disappoint. Meeting them in his office, he saluted Hodge and said ‘Good morning ma’am’ to Barbara Ketz. Tall, with a southern accent, he could not have been out of his early twenties.

  ‘Is everything set up for the interviews, lieutenant?’ Hodge said, a little tensely.

  ‘You bet, sir. Everything as you requested. Would you and the young lady like some refreshment first? Coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you. We’ll get started immediately.’

  ‘Righty-ho. I’ll have someone show you the way. Then we’ll have Hoffmann brought in to you. Guards by the door, captain. I haven’t forgotten.’ Bradley grinned.

  ‘Here’s a list of the other prisoners we want to see today. Numbered. In order. We’ll keep going until we’ve seen them all.’

  Bradley took the list, typed by Lindsay’s secretary. His eyebrows went up and he whistled softly, showing he was impressed. ‘Looks like you got to know our inmates pretty well, sir, if I may say so.’

  ‘Thank you. But is there anybody, anybody at all among the German personnel here, including the cleaners, who is not on that list who you feel should be?’

  Bradley nodded. ‘Two more. One cleaner and one filing clerk. Captain Lindsay didn’t question them. I think maybe they were sick, or something.’

  ‘Good. Thank you. Put them on the list, please. Near the top.’

  ‘Sure.’ Bradley looked him in the eye – as all the Americans did. ‘Happy to help, sir.’

  They were led to the gymnasium by a US corporal. The way led past a row of cells. They could not see into any of them but Hodge was struck by the noise. There was a bedlam of yelling, banging, calling, all against a background of rachitic coughing.

  It was quieter, though still not completely silent, in the gymnasium. There were wall bars round three sides of it, ropes tied up near the ceiling and a vaulting horse in one corner. It stank of sweat and polish.

  The corporal showed them to a table with two chairs on one side and one on the other, at the far end. After a few minutes, two German guards in green police uniforms brought General Kurt Hoffmann to join them. Then they waited, as arranged, within sight but out of earshot.

  To Hodge’s surprise, Hoffmann was in uniform. His boots, which were exactly like Lindsay’s brown, knee-highs, thudded on the wood gymnasium floor. Then, as he sat down, Hodge realised that the uniform was US army but dyed grey-blue.

  Yankee ingenuity, Hodge thought to himself. The uniform would be warm when winter came. It let the prisoners keep their dignity yet marked them out clearly. And the uniforms were readily available. No need to put seamstresses to work. Clever!

  Physically, Hoffmann was exactly what Hodge had expected from a Nazi general. He was in his early fifties, handsome in a fleshy, round-headed kind of way. A little overweight, no doubt from a combination of lack of exercise and prison food. He had contrived an amused look. Hodge guessed he was pleased to be out of his cell for a while.

  Hoffmann said, ‘Who the hell are you?’ before he even sat down.

  ‘My name is Captain Hodge,’ Hodge said, crisply. ‘I am a British army officer, investigating war crimes. This is my translator.’

  Barbara translated.

  Hoffmann stared at Barbara. ‘Who are you?’

  Barbara cleared her throat. She had been looking down, but now met his gaze. ‘My name is Frἂulein Ketz. From Ludwigsburg.’

  ‘Ketz. From Ludwigsburg. That has been noted,’ boomed Hoffmann.

  Barbara Ketz shivered slightly, inside the thick coat, but did not drop her gaze.

  From then on, throughout the interview, Hoffmann answered questions with apparent willingness, even garrulously, confirming Hodge’s first impression that he wanted to talk. Although he usually waited for Barbara to translate the question, once or twice he answered straight away. At no point did he attempt to speak English.

  ‘Tell me what happened at the end of the war,’ Hodge began, conversationally.

  ‘Around midday on April 21st this year, I gave the order for our troops to pull back. We retreated via Plochingen and Urach toward the mountains of the Schwἂbisch Alb, there to die for Hitler.’

  ‘But you didn’t die?’

  ‘Technically, no. But do you think I am in any sense, fully alive?’

  Barbara then added a question to Hoffmann in German, on her own initiative. She translated it and Hoffmann’s answer back to Hodge. ‘I said that Gauleiter Murr, the man the Nazis put in charge of this area, poisoned himself and his wife after the French captured him in May. The Gestapo chief in Stuttgart, Mussguy, also committed suicide in prison. I asked him why he didn’t do the same.’ She had also added zu Feige? – “too scared” – but did not translate that for Hodge.

  Hoffmann, enraged, had said, ‘You allow yourself too much, young lady!’ And then, ostentatiously addressing Hodge only, ‘Perhaps I can finish?’

  ‘Go ahead. You were telling me about the end of the war.’

  ‘When we retreated, the 5th French tank division took Vaihingen, Mohringen, Reidenberg and finally Ludwigsburg. They then deliberately insulted us by bringing up their niggers from the 4th Tunisian and their brown Moroccan so-called Hunter Brigade, which they had no need to do. Our villages and towns were occupied by Africans. What then happened is what you would expect to happen.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘They raped the women.’

  ‘So you decided to fight on?’

  To Hodge’s surprise, Hoffmann did not deny that that was what he was doing.

  ‘No. I decided nothing. We were ordered to fight on. It was a Fṻhrerbefehl – a personal command from Hitler.’

  ‘Hitler’s dead.’

  ‘A Fṻhrerbefehl cannot be countermanded.’

  ‘But your fight was hopeless.’

  Hoffmann shrugged. ‘We all believed the Fṻhrer would come up with something. Perhaps one of the new miracle weapons.’

  ‘V2?’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, something like that. And in any case, International Jewry will surely rise up in revenge. We have to go on with the battle to keep them down. They will get you and the Americans to do their actual fighting for them, of course.’

  ‘Is Karl Wagner part of that fight?’

  ‘We are all part of that fight.’

  ‘Is that why he returned to Ludwigsburg?’

  Hoffmann shrugged again. ‘Ludwigsburg is his home. Where do you expect him to go?’

  ‘So he has not escaped? Out of the country?’

  ‘My dear Captain, how would I know that? I am in a cell. Imprisoned.’

  ‘If Karl Wagner is in Ludwigsburg where would he go? Would he hide out in the fields?’

  ‘No, he would stick out like a sore thumb. Wouldn’t last a week.’

  ‘In the houses of sympathisers, then?’

  ‘If you already know why are you asking me?’

  ‘Do you think we’ll find him?’

  ‘No. If you were going to, you would have done it by now.’

  ‘He’s too well-hidden?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘In Ludwigsburg?’

  Hoffmann nodded. Yes. Then shook his head. No. Then he laughed.

  *

  Between ten in the morning and five in the evening that Sunday, Hodge and Barbara Ketz interviewed ten workers at the Hindenburg Barracks internment camp, all of whom had contact with or access to former Nazi general Kurt Hoffmann. One or more of them, Lindsay was sure, was Hoffmann’s link to the Werwolf group.

  Hodge had asked for the prison warder guard at the gymnasium door to be changed every half-hour. Bradley had acceded to this request, even though it disrupted all his staff rotas. The frequent change of guard meant Hodge could put his plan into action with each prisoner, again and again.

  The questioning would start deliberately blandly.

  ‘What are your duties at the barracks?’

  ‘What did you do during the fighting?’

  ‘Which prisoners do you have access to and when?’

  Then Barbara would slip two dates into her questioning, speaking quickly, and showing the interviewee she was not translating for Hodge any more. The first date was April 18th. The second was April 20th. These were the two dates the Werwolf symbol had appeared on the masthead of the Nazi newspaper, the NS-Kurier. April 20th was also Hitler’s birthday. At the same time as she mentioned the two dates, Barbara slid a piece of paper toward the interviewee. The paper was from Hodge’s notebook, showing the Werwolf symbol.

  As she slid the paper across, Barbara pretended to have left her purse in Bradley’s office.

  She asked Hodge, in English, to go and get it for her. Hodge demurred. Barbara, playing her part with the style of a Hollywood actress, said her ration card was in the purse. She was desperate not to lose it. She even brought herself to tears.

  Nearly all the interviewees had enough English to follow this drama, but in any case Barbara told them in German that Hodge would be back shortly as he stormed off in feigned irritation. He told the guard at the gymnasium door to stay where he was but keep an eye on the prisoner. Then he disappeared into the corridor and waited.

  Using this ruse, Barbara had five minutes or so alone with each man they questioned. She produced her purse from her handbag, explaining the ruse to get rid of Hodge. She introduced herself as a Werwolf sympathiser who the Amis had forced to help them. She begged to be allowed to contribute to the fight to the death, as the Fṻhrer had commanded.

  *

  At the end of the working day, a weary Hodge thanked Bradley in his office for his help and co-operation. He said he would commend him to Lindsay.

  ‘You don’t have to do that, sir,’ said Bradley, embarrassed. ‘I’m just doing my job.’

  Back in the jeep, in the car-park, Hodge said ‘Well?’ tensely, as soon as he slammed the jeep door closed.

  Barbara smiled. It was the first time Hodge had seen that.

  ‘It worked.’ She gave him his piece of paper with the Werwolf symbol back. ‘His name is Gustav Rau. He works in the laundry. They sew messages into Hoffmann’s clothes. One of the guards is also a sympathiser. His name is Heinrich Wittemann.’

  ‘Good! In fact, great!’ Hodge started the jeep. ‘Any news of Karl Wagner? Or the stolen paintings?’

  Barbara shook her head. ‘Afraid not. Nothing certain, anyway. But Wagner’s definitely in Ludwigsburg somewhere. Hoffmann and Werwolf are in contact with him. Not a word about paintings, though.’

  Hodge headed the jeep out of Hindenburg Barracks. ‘So far so good, then. I’ll notify Lindsay. And I’ll get a telex through to my own commander, Palfrey, in Paris. He’ll be pleased we can confirm Wagner is in Ludwigsburg.’

  Barbara nodded, shutting her eyes.

  Hodge took a deep breath, glancing across at her as he drove. ‘We need to celebrate. Do you want a beer at the Flak? Or is there a café open round here?’

  She sighed. ‘No. Thank you. Take me home.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. I’m sure! My father needs his evening meal. He does nothing for himself anymore. He is not … he’s not very well.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Barbara. I admire his work.’

  ‘What? You know his painting?’

  ‘Yes. I did some research before I came, at the Courtauld, mainly – the best art library in London. I researched the nine missing paintings. But then I found a monograph about Fritz Ketz. He was described as a Ludwigsburg painter. That’s how I stumbled across his work. I liked Workers in an Iron Factory very much. And a nude from 1937. She was curled up. Vulnerable.’

  Barbara blushed. ‘That was me. I was fourteen.’

  Hodge smiled at her. ‘You had a rather sweet hat on, as I remember.’

  She put her hands over her face. ‘Oh, no!’ Then she looked at him through her fingers, like a child. ‘That was my sunhat. I had it when I was a baby.’

  She laughed. Hodge laughed with her.

  ‘You father is a fine artist, in my opinion,’ he said. ‘As good as Otto Dix.’

  ‘Wenn er das nur hören könnte.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I was talking to myself.’

  ‘What did you say? Look, I intend to learn German as quickly as I can. But I’ve only just got here. So help me, please.’

  ‘I said ‘”if only he could hear that.” What you just said, about his work.’

  ‘He can hear it. I’ll tell him face to face. It would be an honour to meet Fritz Ketz.’ She hesitated, all wide eyes. He smiled at her. ‘Oh, go on! I’m quite house-trained, you know. I won’t make a mess on the floor or anything.’

  Her answering smile broke through before she could stop it. ‘Alright. Come tomorrow. Come for the evening meal around seven. And don’t bring your own food. We have some pride left, you know.’

  Chapter 6

  Ludwigsburg, Monday August 20, 1945

  Hodge parked the jeep outside the block of flats where Barbara lived with her father just before 7.30pm. He was wearing the only decent civvy-street outfit he had with him – tweed sports jacket, grey flannels, white shirt and dark blue tie.

  It was still light. When he glanced up at the windows set flat into the grubby concrete facade, he thought he saw her. He knew he was falling in love with Barbara. He cradled the goodies he had brought with him in the crook of his left arm. The name Ketz in handwritten black lettering was above one of an array of bells on a discoloured brass plate mounted into the architrave. Beside the name, worn almost to illegibility, was 3X.

  Hodge thought about that, and then pushed the worn button below the name three times. Nothing happened. He was fairly sure there was no ringing sound, nor did the outer door budge. He pressed the unresponding bell some more, three times and then another group of three. The outer door opened.

  ‘Oh hello!’ He blurted it out, relieved.

  ‘The bell doesn’t work,’ she said. ‘We saw you coming from upstairs but it takes
a time to come down. We’re on the fourth floor. Come up.’

  He followed her into the building, and then walked next to her up the wide stone steps.

  She was wearing a sleeveless white dress with an irregular pattern in red and blue of shapes that reminded him of coral or sea anemones. The dress had a demure V-neckline but it gathered under her breasts. She had full breasts.

  Then he noticed she was drunk.

  On the fourth floor, she pushed open the battered door to their apartment.

  ‘Papa. John is here.’ She called that out in English.

  A blast of musty air hit Hodge and he was in. He blinked. It was darker in the poky apartment than it was outside. He quickly saw why. Two of the windows had no glass in them. Instead, wood slats had been crudely hammered across the window frames. Even in London they had been able to replace bomb-blasted windows with new glass, but evidently not here.

  The main room was lit by an oil lamp, though they had electricity. There was a light shining wanly through from the kitchen.

  Fritz Ketz was making his way laboriously from his armchair, hand extended. He wore a red patterned woollen shirt outside his worn brown corduroy trousers. He was grey-haired but still strikingly handsome. He stooped forward, the outstretched hand shaking slightly.

  Hodge squeezed the proffered, veined hand.

  ‘Hello, John.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, sir. I brought some things.’

  He put the heavy American PX bag down on their flimsy Formica table. ‘OK, we have tinned spam,’ bang it went, out of the bag, down on the table. ‘We have lard, I think. We have biscuits.’

  ‘We haven’t eaten those for years,’ Fritz Ketz said.

  ‘Well, you have some now. Let me know when you want more.’ Then back to the bag. ‘We have marmalade, two sorts of chocolate, Hershey Bars, Chesterfield cigarettes, Camel cigarettes, Caporal cigarettes …’

  ‘That’s like money for us,’ Fritz Ketz said, picking up the packets of cigarettes gingerly, then letting them fall on the table again. ‘Three marks each for those.’

  ‘And last but not least, we have stockings for Barbara. I hope they are the right size.’