Hart's War

Home > Mystery > Hart's War > Page 45
Hart's War Page 45

by John Katzenbach


  Tommy cleared his throat. “Just for the official record, Hauptmann, would you give us your full name and rank.”

  “Hauptmann Heinrich Albert Visser. I am currently a captain in the Luftwaffe, recently assigned to Allied prisoner-of-war airman’s camp thirteen.”

  “Your duties here would include administration?”

  “Yes.”

  “And security?”

  Visser hesitated, then he nodded. “Of course. We are all charged with that duty, lieutenant.”

  Yes, Tommy thought, but you more than the others. He did not follow this thought out loud.

  Visser kept his voice even, steady, and loud enough to carry through the now-hushed crowd.

  “And where did you acquire your command of English?”

  Visser paused again, shrugged slightly, and replied, “From the age of six until the age of fifteen I lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in the home of my uncle. He was a shopkeeper. When his business failed during the Depression, the entire family returned to Germany, where I completed my studies, continuing to polish my English.”

  “So you left America when?”

  “In 1932. There was nothing there for my family and myself. And great events were taking place in our own nation, of which we were eager to become part.”

  Tommy nodded. He could easily imagine what those events were—brownshirts, book burnings, and thuggery. For a moment, he eyed Visser carefully. He knew from Fritz Number One that Visser’s father was already a Nazi party member when the teenager returned to Germany. School and the Hitler Youth had probably been his immediate legacy. Tommy warned himself to tread lightly until he’d managed to extract from Visser what he needed. But his next question was neither light nor careful.

  “How did you lose your arm, Hauptmann?”

  Visser’s face seemed immobile, frozen, as if the ice he wore in his eyes was the best way to conceal the fury that smoked beneath the surface.

  “Near the coast of France in 1939,” he said stiffly.

  “A Spitfire?”

  Visser cracked a small, cruel smile.

  “The British Spitfire is a single-engine fighter powered by a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine capable of speeds in excess of three hundred miles per hour. It is armed with eight sequentially firing fifty-caliber machine guns, four mounted in each wing. One of these formidable planes managed to surprise me while I was flying routine escort duty. A most unfortunate encounter, although I did manage to parachute to safety. My arm, however, was shredded by a bullet and removed at a nearby hospital.”

  “And so, flying was no longer an option.”

  Visser laughed although there was no joke. “It would seem that way, lieutenant.”

  “But then, in 1939, you were unwilling to give up your career in the military. Certainly not at that point, when Germany’s successes were substantial.”

  “Our successes, as you call them, were the envy of the world.”

  “And you did not want to retire, despite your wound, true? You were young, you were ambitious, and you wanted to continue to be a part of this greatness.”

  The German took a moment to reply, considering his words first. “This is true,” he said after a second or two passed. “I did not want to be passed over. I was young, and despite my wound, still strong. Strong both physically and in my heart, lieutenant. There was much I believed I could contribute.”

  “And so, you were retrained, were you not?”

  Again, Visser hesitated. “I suppose there is no harm in saying yes. I was given new training and new duties.”

  “This new training, it didn’t have anything to do with flying a fighter, did it?”

  Visser smiled. He shook his head. “No. It did not, lieutenant.”

  “You were trained in counterintelligence operations, true?”

  “No, this I will not answer.”

  “Well,” Tommy said carefully, “did you have the opportunity to study modern police techniques and tactics?”

  Again Visser paused, thinking before replying. “I had this opportunity.”

  “And you gained this expertise?”

  “I have been well-educated, lieutenant. I have always finished any schooling—whether it was flight school, studying languages, or forensic techniques—at the top of my class. I now take on whatever new responsibilities are defined by my superior officers, to the best of my abilities.”

  “And one of those responsibilities was the investigation of this matter that brings us here. The murder of Captain Bedford.”

  “That is obvious, lieutenant.”

  “Why was the murder of an Allied officer in a prisoner-of-war camp of any importance to the German authorities whatsoever? Why did your superiors care in the slightest?”

  Visser hesitated a moment. “I will not answer this question,” he replied.

  A murmur of voices raced through the courtroom.

  “Why won’t you answer?” Tommy demanded.

  “This would be a matter of security, lieutenant. I will say no more.”

  Tommy crossed his arms, trying to think of another route to the answer, but was unable to think of one rapidly. Inwardly he took note of a single, pulsating concept: If the murder of Trader Vic weren’t somehow important to the Germans, they would never have sent a man such as Visser to the camp.

  “Lieutenant,” Colonel MacNamara said harshly, “please get on with your questioning of this witness!”

  Tommy nodded, wondering also what the big hurry was, and asked: “So, of all the men you’ve heard from the witness stand, and all the men involved in this case to this point, isn’t it fair to say that you are the only one who has actually been trained in criminal investigations and procedures? The only one so trained who actually examined Trader Vic’s body and the crime scene surrounding it? You are the only true expert to investigate this crime?”

  “Objection!” Walker Townsend cried out.

  “Overruled!” MacNamara answered, just as swiftly. “You may answer, Hauptmann!”

  “Well, lieutenant,” Visser replied slowly, “your compatriot, Flying Officer Renaday, has some limited understanding and skills based on his primitive experiences in a rural police force. Wing Commander Pryce, who is no longer with us, had considerable knowledge on these subjects. It would appear that Captain Townsend, as well, is well educated on these procedures.” The German could not hide his grin, as he sent a singular thrust toward the prosecution: “Which only makes me very suspicious as to why he would try to devise such a ludicrous and ridiculous scenario for this murder, as he has. . . .”

  Townsend slammed both hands down on the prosecution table as he threw himself to his feet, shouting, “Objection! Objection! Objection!” as he rose. Visser stopped speaking, wearing a mocking smile of false politeness on his face, as Townsend furiously responded. Behind Tommy, the kriegies once again burst into babbling discussions, dozens of voices competing at once.

  Banging away, Colonel MacNamara managed to regain order in the courtroom. He turned to Hauptmann Visser and coldly said, “Hauptmann, it would help matters considerably were you to merely answer the questions you are asked without any further characterizations.”

  “Of course, Herr Colonel,” the German responded. “Let me rephrase my statement: My examination of the crime scene and the evidence collected to this point suggest a different series of events from those claimed here. Is that preferable, Your Honor? I should, perhaps, eliminate the words ludicrous and ridiculous?” Visser managed to infect his words with distaste.

  “Yes,” MacNamara answered. “Precisely.” It seemed to Tommy that the hatred in the courtroom was almost palpable. Best deal with that right away, he thought to himself.

  He cleared his throat harshly. “Let me get something straight, let’s everybody get something straight, before we go on about this case, Hauptmann. You hate us, correct?”

  Visser smiled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Us,” Tommy said, sweeping his arm to indicate the assembled kriegies. “You hate
us, without knowing us. Merely because we’re American. Or English. Or any Allied airman. You hate me. You hate Captain Townsend and Flying Officer Renaday and Colonel MacNamara and every last one of us sitting in the audience. Is this not true, Hauptmann?”

  Visser hesitated, shrugged, then nodded.

  “You are the enemy. One should always hate the enemies of the fatherland.”

  Tommy took a deep breath.

  “That’s too easy an answer, Hauptmann. That sounds like a schoolboy’s memorized response. Your hatred seems somewhat greater.”

  Again Visser paused, measuring his words carefully, doling them out in an even, hard-edged, and cold voice.

  “No one who has been wounded, as I have, who has seen his family—mother, father, sisters—killed by terror-bombing, as I have, who has seen his friends die, as I have, and who can remember all the hypocrisy and lies spoken by your nation, can avoid feelings of anger and hatred, lieutenant. Does that answer your question perhaps better?”

  Visser’s response was as frozen as winter rain. Each word pelted the men in the audience, because there were aspects of everything he said that they, too, felt. In that second, Visser managed to remind everyone that outside the wire the world was gathered in homicidal rage, and they all felt stricken that they were no longer taking part in it.

  “It must be hard for you,” Tommy asked slowly, “to be stuck here in charge of keeping men alive whom you would rather see killed.”

  Visser’s lip curled in a small, nasty smile.

  “This is an oversimplification, Lieutenant Hart. But true.”

  “So if I were to die tomorrow, or Captain Townsend or Colonel MacNamara or any of the men here at Stalag Luft Thirteen, this would please you?”

  Visser’s smile did not so much as budge a millimeter, as he replied, “That is almost entirely true, Mr. Hart.”

  Tommy stopped, paused, then asked, “Almost entirely?”

  Visser nodded. “The sole exception, Mr. Hart, of course, would be your client. The Schwarze airman, Scott. Of him, I do not care one way or the other.”

  This comment took Tommy slightly off-guard. He asked his next question rather foolishly, before first considering it.

  “Why is that?”

  Visser lifted his shoulders slightly, almost as if with that gesture he was taking the time to install the mocking tone into his voice: “We do not consider the Negro to be human,” he said calmly, staring directly at Lincoln Scott as he spoke. “The rest of you, yes, you are the enemy. He, on the other hand, is merely a mercenary beast employed by your air corps, lieutenant. No different from a Hundführer’s dog patrolling the camp wire. One may fear that dog, lieutenant, perhaps even respect it for its teeth and claws and devotion to its master. But it remains little more than a trained beast.”

  Tommy did not have to turn around to see Lincoln Scott stiffen his back and clench his fists. He hoped the black airman would manage to keep his own fury in check. From the crowded kriegie audience, Tommy heard a ripple of conversation, like a wind racing through treetops, and he knew Visser had just helped him to take the trial of Lincoln Scott across an important line.

  For a moment, he rubbed his chin.

  “What makes a man a man, Hauptmann?”

  Visser did not reply immediately, letting a smile curl across his face. The scars he wore on his cheeks from his encounter with the Spitfire seemed to glisten, and finally, he shrugged.

  “A complex question, lieutenant. One that has bedeviled philosophers, clerics, and scientists for centuries. Surely you do not expect me to be able to answer it here, today, in this military court?”

  “No, Hauptmann. But I would expect you to be able to give all of us your own definition. Personal definition.”

  Visser paused, thinking, then replied, “There are many factors, Lieutenant Hart. Sense of honor. Bravery. Dedication. These would be combined with intelligence. The ability to reason.”

  “Qualities Lieutenant Scott does not possess?”

  “Not to the degree sufficient.”

  “You consider yourself to be an intelligent, educated man, Hauptmann? A sophisticated man?”

  “Of course.”

  Tommy decided to take a chance. He could feel his own fury at the fanatic German’s smug responses fighting to take over his emotions, and he had to struggle to keep a certain coldness in his voice and in his questions. At the same moment, he hoped that all his prep school training from a decade earlier had stuck with him. The faculty back at his old school had always said there was a reason for memorizing certain great works, and that someday a recitation might prove important. He trusted this to be one of those times.

  “Ah, an educated, intelligent man would understand the classics, I suppose. Tell me, Hauptmann, are you familiar with the following: Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris Italiam fato profugus . . .”

  Visser stared harshly at Tommy Hart. “Latin is a dead language, from a corrupt and decadent culture, and not among my skills.”

  “So you do not recognize . . .” and Tommy stopped. “Well, don’t let me tell you . . .” He spun sharply about, taking a gamble. “Lieutenant Scott?” he demanded in a loud voice.

  Scott sprang to his feet. He stared across at the German, a small, cruel smile of his own on his face.

  “It would seem to me that any truly educated man would recognize the opening lines to Virgil’s Aeneid,” Scott said sharply. “‘I sing of arms and the man who first from the shores of Troy came destined an exile in Italy . . .’ Would you like me to continue, Hauptmann? ‘. . . multum ille et terris iactatus at alto Vi superam, saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram . . .’ That would be: ‘. . . Much buffeted he on land and on the deep by force of the gods because of fierce Juno’s never forgetting anger. . . .’ ”

  Lincoln Scott stood stock-still as he recited the poet’s words. The courtroom remained silent, a long, electric moment, and then Scott, still wearing a look of barely constrained fury, spoke out loudly, but evenly, not removing his eyes from the German. “A dead language, for sure. But the verses can speak as loudly today as they did centuries ago.” Scott hesitated, then added, “But Mr. Hart, it is perhaps unfair to ask this highly educated man a question about a language he doesn’t know. So, Hauptmann, perhaps you could use your knowledge to identify, ‘Es irr der Mensch, so lang er strebt. . . .’ ”

  Visser smiled nastily at Lincoln Scott. “I am pleased that the lieutenant has read the German masters as well. Goethe’s Faust is a standard work in our colleges and universities.”

  Scott seemed coolly pleased. “But not so much in ours, in America. Would the Hauptmann be so kind as to translate for the audience?”

  Visser’s smile faded just a touch. He nodded.

  “ ‘Man is in error, throughout his strife . . .’ ” the German said sharply.

  “I’m sure you can understand what the poet meant by that, Hauptmann,” Scott said.

  Then the black flier sat down, with a small nod in Tommy’s direction. Tommy noticed that even Walker Townsend was hypnotized by the exchange. Tommy looked over at the German. Visser seemed outwardly unruffled, unaffected by the give-and-take. He doubted that was true deep within the German. Tommy thought Visser was as much a performer as he was a policeman, and he suspected that some of Visser’s strength came in his ability to shield his real feelings. Tommy took a deep breath and reminded himself that Visser remained coiled, alert, and extremely poisonous.

  “And so, Hauptmann, there came a time when you were summoned to the Abort where Captain Bedford’s body was discovered. . . .”

  Visser shifted in his chair and nodded. “Ah,” he said, “we have finished with the philosophical inquiries, and returned to the real world?”

  “For the moment, Hauptmann, yes. Please explain to all assembled what you were able to deduce from the crime scene in the Abort.”

  Visser settled back.

  “To begin with, lieutenant, the crime scene was not the Abort. Captain Bedford was murdered in a dif
ferent location and then transported to the Abort where his body was abandoned.”

  “How can you tell this?”

  “There was a bloody footprint of a shoe on the floor of the Abort. It was pointing toward the stall where the body was located. Had the murder taken place in that location, then the blood would have been on the shoe, exiting the Abort. In addition, the bloodstains on the body, and the adjacent privy area, suggested that most of the victim’s bleeding was done elsewhere.”

  Walker Townsend rose, opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, then returned to his seat.

  “Do you know where Trader Vic was actually killed?”

  “No. I have not uncovered that location. I suspect steps have been taken to conceal it.”

  “What else did you learn from examining the body?”

  Visser smiled again, continuing to speak in a self-satisfied and self-assured voice. “As you previously suggested, lieutenant, it appeared that the blow which took the captain’s life was delivered from behind, by someone wielding a narrow, double-edged blade. A dagger, I suspect. And this weapon was in the assailant’s left hand, as you surmised. This is the only possible explanation for the type of wound on the victim’s neck.”

  “The weapon the prosecution claims was used to commit the murder?”

  “It would have produced a large, ragged, bloody slash-like wound. Not the more precise stab that Captain Bedford suffered.”

  “Now, you have not seen this other weapon, have you?”

 

‹ Prev