The Nero Decree

by Greg Williams

  With his other hand, Johann raised the syringe to Dieter’s bicep.

  The needle was hovering an inch above his skin when the silence was shattered. It felt, to Johann, like the crash of thunder.

  “What are you doing, Oberstabsarzt?” came a booming voice.

  Johann paused and turned to look at Ostermann, before returning his gaze to Dieter as if nothing was amiss.

  “It’s a painkiller,” Johann explained matter-of-factly.

  He could still do it. Ostermann would think that Dieter was merely sleeping. By the time he discovered otherwise, Johann would be on his way to Berlin. He was about to push the needle into Dieter’s flesh when he felt Ostermann’s hand upon his wrist.

  “Put it down,” Ostermann told Johann.

  Johann saw Ostermann’s moist eyes in the darkness, rimmed with red but determined. Johann had only a moment to decide what to do. The briefcase was on the floor—should Ostermann see that he had dragged it from under Dieter’s bed he was finished.

  “All right,” Johann said. “What’s your concern?”

  “Is this the usual amount of painkiller?” Ostermann said.

  Johann nodded. His hand was beginning to shake a little now from the tension of Ostermann’s grip. He glanced at the tip of the needle, no more than an inch from Dieter’s arm. He could kill Dieter in a second if he tried.

  “An orderly came and gave the Sturmbannführer his medication but an hour ago,” Ostermann said.

  “Really?” Johann said, his brow furrowed with phony concern. “I saw no mention of it on his chart. The nurse must have forgotten to write it down.”

  Ostermann nodded, although he didn’t appear entirely convinced by Johann’s words. He stood his ground, suspicious, like a wild animal facing a human offering food.

  “I will make sure that he’s punished,” Johann said. He wondered whether he could wait to kill Dieter until the morning, once Ostermann was distracted by his preparations to leave. He felt Ostermann’s grip loosen. Johann held the syringe close to his half brother. Do it! Do it! he told himself.

  He pulled it back.

  “I suppose that these things happen,” Ostermann said.

  “We are all very tired,” Johann replied.

  Ostermann examined him for a moment, shifting his head to the side.

  “What happened to your face?” he asked.

  Johann reached up and touched his right cheek. He looked at Ostermann and realized that the SS man was now staring down. His eyes were upon the briefcase.…

  Both men made to grab each other at the same time, but Ostermann had the advantage of height. He fell upon Johann and the two men tumbled down on Dieter, who sat up violently from the pain.

  Johann held on to the syringe with his right hand, punching Ostermann in the side of the head with his left. He felt the SS man’s hands reaching for his eyes. He needed to end this situation quickly—other medical staff might be drawn to the disturbance. He plunged the needle into Ostermann’s neck and rammed the sodium thiopental home with the heel of his hand.

  Ostermann shook as if a tremor was passing through his body. He lurched backward, staggering as he lost all sensation, and pulled the device from his neck.

  But it was too late. Johann watched as the man’s knees buckled. He read the signs: Ostermann’s heart was suffering arrhythmia, his brain was lapsing into unconsciousness, his nervous system was demonstrating signs of dizziness, confusion, blurred vision.… Finally Ostermann succumbed to complete cardiovascular collapse. He fell as if he had been hit on the head with a rock.

  Johann turned to see Dieter staring hard into his eyes. His half brother knew that Johann had intended to kill him this way. Ostermann had saved him from the deadly dose.

  Panicked, Johann leapt up. He had planned to steal in and kill Dieter unnoticed. No one would have suspected foul play. He could have slipped away to the farmhouse rendezvous quietly. Now there was a dead SS man on the floor and a witness to that homicide. What to do first? He needed to kill Dieter—should his half brother regain his power of speech Johann was sunk. His eyes met those of the Sturmbannführer again. Johann could see Dieter burning with frustration—the man wanted nothing more than to lash out and scream at the top of his lungs, but his body had failed him.

  Johann tried to think clearly. Time was on his side. Dieter was trapped. He needed to deal with his most pressing problem first: Ostermann.

  Johann walked from the screened-off area and looked around. There was no one outside the room or in the entranceway to the makeshift ward. He dragged a coarse gray wool blanket from Ostermann’s bed and wrapped the dead man in it before placing the body on his shoulder.

  Johann lolloped quickly outside, imagining what he might say should anyone confront him. He cast glances around to see if he was being observed, but the darkness meant that he was concealed except at close quarters. The night was still and quiet except for the noise of his breathing. He moved quickly, knowing that should he drop Ostermann, he might not have the strength to pull the corpse up again. His neck ached and his right shoulder burned. Ostermann became heavier the farther he went. He passed down a narrow lane and reached the latrine, pausing momentarily to listen—no one appeared to be using it. He dumped the body inside and dragged Ostermann to a spot inside the old farm building, where there was a beam about seven feet off the floor. He removed the man’s belt and slung it over the beam, before using all his might to lift the corpse and push its head through the loop that he had created with the black leather. Shattered by the effort of lifting, Johann collapsed on the fetid floor. Looking up, he saw Ostermann swinging from side to side above him. Just like the arm of a metronome, Johann thought.

  There, for the entire world to see, was a man who could take no more. It was not uncommon—suicides were increasing as the prospect of an encounter with the Red Army became imminent. Better to get drunk and hang yourself than wind up on the end of a bayonet or in a gulag. They would find Ostermann tomorrow and not think beyond the story in front of them—Dieter’s silence would see to that.

  As he walked back from the latrine, panting with exertion, Johann paused for a moment. He watched the vapor from his breath disperse in the night air, and wondered how, in the space of two hours, he had come to be responsible for the deaths of two men. He had always thought that he was no more a killer than he was a porpoise. Now Lehman and Ostermann both lay dead—their demise the result of his desperation. He was not proud to be a killer, but he had little regret about his choice of victims. Two fewer SS men was a good thing.

  He snapped out of his momentary reverie. He needed to deal with Dieter immediately.

  He had to get the briefcase—even if Dieter could talk, Johann knew that his half brother would never reveal his secrets. Trudging back to the facility in the freezing night, terrified and fatigued, Johann had a realization: With Lehman and Ostermann dead—and Dieter soon to join them—the only way to discover the threat to Berlin and the significance of the mission was to attend the rendezvous at the farmhouse as Dieter himself.

  He stopped. Had he lost his mind? He reasoned that it was no more an unimaginable act than his having killed two members of the SS.

  He started to walk again. He tempered his fear of the farmhouse by insisting to himself that, after he had discovered the mystery of Dieter’s mission, he would find Anja and Nadine in the dark, ruined city. They would reach the American lines. They would rediscover life.

  It was what he had always vowed to his wife. He and Anja had discussed the arrangement the last time he had visited Berlin, at Christmas: When it seemed that the end was near, they would find a way out of the city to the west and head for the American or British lines. Rumors had been circulating that the closer the Soviets got to Berlin, the more likely it was that Wehrmacht forces in the west would put down their arms to allow the GIs and Tommies to liberate the capital. There had been fevered speculation about what would happen should the Soviets get to the city first. There had even been chatter tha
t senior military figures were willing to negotiate with Eisenhower behind the Führer’s back.

  He hurried through the mud to where he knew that Dieter was lying paralyzed, waiting for him. He stepped inside the tent, walked into the antechamber, and rifled through Ostermann’s belongings, taking only the keys for the Kübelwagen. He pushed back the flap to Dieter’s room—he needed to fetch the briefcase and his half brother’s uniform.

  Johann didn’t need his eyes to adjust to see that there was another doctor in the room—Andreas Karl, a small, twitchy man in his fifties who had only recently been called up. Johann barely knew him, but he was a type: the anxious man who had hoped to escape the war. But right at the end he finds himself in the thick of the horror.

  “I thought you finished at four,” he said, not unkindly.

  “That’s right,” Johann said.

  “It’s nearly four-thirty,” Karl told him. “Go and get some sleep. You look dreadful.”

  Johann glanced over at Dieter. His eyes were closed.

  “He was hallucinating,” Karl said. “Going on about someone called Thomas killing a man. He was out of his mind. I knocked him out.”

  “Four-thirty already?” Johann said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  “The Soviet advance will start soon,” Karl said. “We need to be ready.”

  “I know, I know…,” Johann said. “But this patient. I saw him when he first arrived. You know how it is—Sometimes they get under your skin.”

  Karl nodded wistfully.

  “I know that feeling,” he said. “I heard he was a mess when he came in, but it looks like you saved him.”

  Johann flinched at Karl’s final words.

  “Do you have a pen?” Karl asked, patting his pockets. “I left mine next door.”

  “Sorry,” Johann answered.

  “Oh, well…,” Karl said, pushing back the flap. “It’s only next door, I suppose.”

  The second Karl was out of view, Johann quickly reached under Dieter’s bed and grabbed the briefcase and an SS uniform that Ostermann had brought from the vehicle—the one Dieter had been wearing when he arrived had been ruined. Hastily he pushed them into the bottom corner of the side of the tarpaulin that was being used to come in and out of the room. As soon as he had finished, Karl came back in.

  “Come back tomorrow,” Karl said. “You won’t miss anything.”

  “Okay,” said Johann. “I’ll do that.”

  He needed to calm himself. The situation was under control. He would deal with Dieter tomorrow when there was an opportunity to be alone. Then he would escape to Berlin. He took one more look at his half brother and edged from the room, watching as Karl updated Dieter’s chart. As Karl hummed to himself, Johann dragged the briefcase and uniform from beneath the tarp.

  What Johann missed as he disappeared outside was Dieter’s eyes opening.

  Their silent pleas to Karl remained unheeded.

  5

  His dreams were of his father. Chopping wood together at a cottage in the Rhineland. A Bach concert at the Steinway-Haus on Hardenbergstraße. Eating black bread and fried eggs for breakfast on a Sunday, a roaring fire in the grate…

  Johann opened his eyes and, above him, he saw green army canvas. He took a sip of water from a tin mug by the side of his bed and ran through the many reasons he had to feel fearful.

  He checked his watch. He was on duty in twenty minutes. He felt the stubble on his chin. If his plan was to come together and Johann was to make the meeting at the farmhouse that evening, he would need to shave. Ten minutes later he patted his pocket as he walked from the mess back to Dieter’s makeshift quarters. It was there—his last ampoule of sodium thiopental.

  Johann passed into the anteroom. It was as if Ostermann had never been there. His possessions had been removed and another patient, his face entirely covered in bandages, was asleep on the cot. This time, Johann thought there would be no waking his half brother, no grandstanding. Johann would get into the room, administer the medication, and get out. The orderly would find Dieter dead on his next round—and Johann would be gone.

  He pushed back the canvas and slipped into the room. It was dark inside. There was the sound of irregular breathing as Johann crept forward toward the mound of blankets. He pulled the ampoule from his pocket and filled the syringe. Now was his chance. Johann pulled back the cover and readied his thumb to deliver the fatal dose. Goodbye, Dieter, and good riddance. He grabbed an arm, his eyes searching for a vein. A final glance at his half brother…

  Nausea flowered in his stomach.

  The man in the bed wasn’t Dieter.

  Johann burst into the doctors’ quarters, looking for Karl. The room was as gloomy as any of the wards, lit as it was by lanterns. There were no windows—any chink of light would bring a volley from Soviet Katyusha missiles. Karl was sitting on his bed writing a letter. Johann noticed that, even in the chaos of a military hospital, Karl was writing on beautiful stationery using a fountain pen.

  “The patient Schnell,” Johann said loudly. “What happened?”

  “Quiet!” came a voice from the other side of the room.

  “Where is he?” Johann asked, aware that he didn’t want the entire room to know the extent of his panic.

  “He’s fine,” Karl said, smiling. “Soon after you came in last night a truck arrived to collect the most seriously wounded and transport them to Berlin.”

  Dieter would be in Berlin within two days. Three at the latest.

  “I thought it best to ensure that Schnell was on the truck,” Karl said. “The injuries aren’t as significant as we first thought, and he’s responding well to treatment. He’ll make it.”

  Johann nodded as if expressing medical agreement. He felt a terrible darkness pass over him. A bead of sweat hung from his nose.

  “Are you all right, Schultz?” Karl asked. “You appear to have a fever.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine…,” Johann bluffed. The news had sent him into a state of high panic. He needed to act. He needed to return to Berlin—when Dieter recovered consciousness his first act would be to denounce Johann.

  Anja and Nadine would be picked up by the Gestapo within hours.

  Karl continued to examine Johann.

  “Look, I’m sorry to ask,” Johann said, “but can I have a sheet of writing paper and an envelope? I’ve run out.”

  “Of course,” said Karl, reaching beneath his bed.

  Karl nodded courteously and handed Johann the stationery.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Johann said, aware that there were now other eyes upon him. “I was just concerned about the patient because I worked on him yesterday. I wanted to know if there had been any further developments.”

  “Would you like some water, Johann?” Karl asked.

  “No, no.” He was aware that his body was almost vibrating with anxiety. He was certain that those in the room could smell it above the stale sweat, dirty clothes, and troubled sleep. “I should get moving; my shift has already started.” With that, Johann walked from the room, aware that several of its occupants were now watching him curiously.

  He felt the shape of Ostermann’s car keys in his pocket and knew that this was his best—no, only—chance of escape.

  Otto was inspecting a panzer gunner with a shoulder wound—the smell alone told him that gangrene had set in—when he felt an urgent tapping on his back. Before he could spin around, he heard a familiar voice.

  “Otto!”

  He turned to see his friend. Johann was sweating, agitated. This wasn’t the man Otto knew. Johann was usually a calm, solid, dependable presence—the last to crack.

  “Is everything okay?” Otto asked. He held his soiled hands in the air between them.

  “I need you to take something to Berlin for me,” Johann said rapidly.

  Otto examined his friend, trying to read the anxiety. “Of course,” he said, turning back to his work. “I’ll come and see you before I leave this afternoon.”

  J
ohann grabbed his arm and looked deep into Otto’s eyes before looking around to see if anyone could overhear them.

  “Don’t worry,” Otto whispered. “I’ll find you.”

  “There’s no time for that,” Johann said. He slipped a letter into the pocket of Otto’s olive-colored examination gown.

  “Johann, are you all right?” Otto asked. His tone was one of concern. He had never seen Johann this agitated and furtive.

  “See that it gets there safely,” Johann insisted.

  Otto recognized the need in his friend’s eyes. He nodded.

  “Do you promise me?” Johann demanded.

  “I do,” Otto replied. “Have no fear of that.”

  Johann nodded in thanks. “I will see you in Berlin,” he said before leaving.

  Otto listened to the wind playing on the walls of the tent and hoped that Johann was right.

  Somehow he doubted they would ever meet again.

  In an empty storage room, Johann quickly changed from his doctor’s scrubs into Dieter’s uniform, which he had stolen from beneath the bed. Beside him was the battered SS briefcase and a bag of belongings with some meager supplies—stale bread, a little salami, and a bottle of water. It would have to be enough to get him home, if home even existed any longer. The RAF and USAF might be flattening the place at this very moment, with his wife and niece inside. He must hurry; he was already late for his shift. It would not be long until they would start looking for him.

  He steeled himself, knowing that this was just the beginning. He thought about Anja and Nadine. He thought about his father. That was enough.

  He pushed open the door and walked to where the SS Kübelwagen was parked. He noticed the effect that the uniform had on those around him. They no longer saw his face; they just saw the field-gray tunic, the black boots, the peaked cap with the death’s-head. How very odd to be perceived as that which you despise. The door of the jeep was unlocked. Inside, the vehicle was a wreck. The floor was caked with dirt and the interior bore evidence that it had been home to three men. Johann wondered how long they had been living like this. Clearly they had not been expecting an inspection at any point.