They could remain here no longer. They would break out of Berlin.
9
Johann jammed on the brakes, bringing the Kübelwagen to a skidding halt. The briefcase slid from the seat and fell to the floor. He jumped from the jeep and searched in the trunk for some tools. He found a screwdriver inside an empty ammunition container, returned to the front of the vehicle, and looked around to make sure he was not being followed. Ever since he had escaped from the hospital, Johann had been desperate to know the contents of the briefcase.
Lehman had told him that he would only discover Dieter’s mission if he went to the farmhouse, but surely the case would offer clues.
He forced the screwdriver into the keyhole of the briefcase and twisted it hard. Eventually the lock snapped. Johann pulled at the brass clasp—but it wouldn’t shift. The mechanism rotated when he turned the screwdriver, but breaking it had made no impact on the effectiveness of the lock. He pushed the tool into the clasp and levered it, twisting the screwdriver forcefully. Finally, with a loud crack, the clasp came apart.
Johann pulled the case open wide and looked inside. It was packed tightly with a jumble of taupe envelopes of different sizes and shapes. He pulled one out and saw a series of numbers and letters written, in pencil, on the front. He reread the code, but it made no sense to him.
The envelope was sealed. He hesitated opening it for a second before inserting his thumb into the flap that had been glued shut. The gum parted in thin strands before pulling apart. Johann reached inside, his hand trembling, and pulled out a small box about four inches square and an inch deep and put it on the hood of the Kübelwagen. The code had been written on the box by the same hand that had written on the envelope—the same two letters began the progression. He pulled open the box. Inside was a dark metal spool. Johann pulled it from the box and saw that, wrapped around the spool, was a thin strip of celluloid.
Microfilm.
He had used it when he had been interning at the hospital years ago for research purposes. Johann pulled at the loose end of the strip and held it to the sky. In the weak light it looked to be black with vertical gray patches. Johann’s eyes were beginning to ache now: The strain of the events of the past hours and concentrating on the road were taking their toll. The images were much too small for him to read anything, but Johann could tell that each of them was a negative of a photograph of a document.
He placed the spool back in the envelope and stuffed it into the case. He prized out another couple of envelopes—both of them had handwritten code on the outside—and felt them. Inside each was a square container the same size as the one in the first envelope. He knew now what was in the case—dozens of envelopes containing microfilm. But he could still only guess at the significance of this information. All he knew for sure was that Dieter and the men in his unit were willing to die to protect it.
He hunted through the case to see if there was anything that might enlighten him about the Berlin mission that Lehman had talked about.
Nothing.
He sighed. Had he imagined something of great portent that didn’t exist? Had the SS unit just been fulfilling a simple mission? He thought not, but he was no closer to discovering the truth—or Dieter’s part in it.
He packed the envelopes back in the briefcase, then flipped it closed and placed it back on the passenger seat.
He pressed his hands to his forehead. What on earth was he doing meddling in such matters? He had killed two men and deserted his post. He was a dead man if he was apprehended. Surely he would do better to try and get to Berlin and hide until the war was over. He had heard rumors that there were thousands of soldiers holed up in the city already.
He had promised Anja that he would come home before the darkest hour descended.
But the Wenck farm on the Zossen Road near Müncheberg was just a few miles away now.
He had to know.
He owed it to Nicolas. He had done nothing that June night to protect his father. He would not walk away again; he had to go to the farm. Only there could he learn for sure what Dieter’s terrible mission had been. Only there might he discover the danger to Berlin posed by Germany’s doomed rulers.
He got back in the car and executed a three-point turn with much skidding of the Kübelwagen’s knobbly tires and drove back the other way toward Zossen. On his left, the west and sunshine, on the right, the darkness of the east.
He headed north for another half hour, following the road toward the farm. Without warning the car began to splutter. He examined the sole dial in the Kübelwagen, which was positioned on the dashboard midway between the driver and passenger. He was out of diesel. Damn. The meeting was supposed to be at six—he had two hours to get there, and he estimated that it was at least five miles away. He clambered out of the car into the misty air and set about unstrapping the jerrycan from over the front wheel arch. There would be twenty liters of diesel in there—enough to get him to Berlin.
The second he pulled it free Johann knew he was in trouble. The can was empty. Johann cursed and threw the metal container into a field. He looked up the road, which narrowed. There was nothing else for it now. He returned to the Kübelwagen and retrieved the briefcase.
He imagined that its contents were as incendiary as anything the Soviets could fire from their Katyushas. He would honor his father and expose the full awfulness of his brother. He would find his wife. As he trotted up the road he realized that he was now a lot closer to Berlin than he had been this morning.
He was halfway home.
Time was short. Johann consulted the map that he had sketched according to Lehman’s description. There was no way he would make the rendezvous if he continued along the road, which offered a circuitous route. On foot it would be quicker to cut across fields and woodland. Johann found a gap in a hedgerow and squeezed through it, dragging the case after him. He was thirsty. He hoped there might be a stream in the woodland ahead. The field he walked across was wet and marshy. It appeared not to have been planted. He didn’t like being out in the open like this, and hurried toward the tree line.
He reached the woods and looked back over the swampy land to see if he was being followed. He couldn’t see anyone. He tried to get his bearings by checking on the position of the sun. He needed to continue northwest for about two miles, where he would encounter a road. From there he had to head north for another two miles through more woodland.
He waded through the decaying leaves and ferns as quietly as he could manage, stopping every so often to listen and watch for other people. As he marched, he shifted the briefcase between his arms, sometimes cradling it in both. He checked his watch. If he was right, he was making good time.
At last he saw water—a small brook, some of it obscured by dead foliage and branches. He let go of the briefcase for the first time and knelt down, scooping the cold water up and gulping it down. It tasted metallic, but it satisfied his thirst.
What was that?
Johann threw himself to the woodland floor. He was sure that he had heard a horse whinny.
There it was again. Johann flattened himself on the ground and pulled the briefcase toward him. Were those footsteps he heard? He reached down for his handgun.
He was sure there were people nearby.
He searched for the source of the noise. Through the trees he could see movement. He was close to the road. He inched forward on his knees, dragging the briefcase after him. He was perhaps twenty yards away now. Before him he saw a picture of pure human misery: thousands of bedraggled, haggard refugees streaming toward Berlin to escape the Russian advance. The convoy appeared to consist mostly of women and children, some of whom were being carried, while others stumbled after their mothers as if in a dream. Still others rode on carts or were pushed in carriages loaded with possessions. They were all silent, each absorbed in private wretchedness. There were elderly people too: some hobbling along as if each step might be their last. Many carried suitcases, and several had bedding draped over their sh
oulders.
He decided to go back deep into the woods and walk parallel with the road to ensure that no one observed him. Just as he was beginning to edge backward he heard a vehicle coming down the road. He watched as people scattered to the side of the highway. The vehicle pulled over urgently next to a cart driven by a woman. Four children sat on top of a pile of household possessions. Johann peered through the trees at the Kübelwagen.
Feldgendarmerie.
The soldiers shouted instructions to the woman to halt the cart. Two of them climbed on the back, lifting the children to the ground. They then set about rifling through the furniture, bedding, and clothing. The woman gathered her children by the side of the road and began to shout at the soldiers.
“You won’t find anything in there—let us be on our way. Ivan kommt.”
The soldiers ignored her and continued to search. One of them discovered a chest at the bottom of the pile of possessions.
The woman pulled her children closer to her.
The Feldgendarmerie officers flung open the lid of the chest and dragged a man, who looked to be in his early thirties, out onto the cart, shouting at him to raise his hands. The man wore a thick, bloodied bandage around his head and looked dazed. He gazed forlornly at his wife, who was hugging the children and screaming at the soldiers to let her husband go.
“He’s honest and hardworking!” she shouted. “Let him alone. Let him live in peace.”
The man was dragged from the cart. Johann could see that he was wearing a civilian coat, but on his lower body there were military-issue trousers and boots. A deserter.
The woman kept screaming. The soldiers ignored her pleas and the sobbing of the children. With weapons raised they pushed the man into the woods.
Johann was horrified to realize that they were heading directly for him. His instinct was to run, but he grasped that, if he moved, he would give himself away. He maneuvered his body deep into a cluster of ferns that were just behind him, sliding through the moist earth. The foliage was his only chance.
“Please,” the deserter said. “What will become of my family? Let me live, please.”
The Feldgendarmerie soldiers took no notice, pushing the man deeper into the woodland—closer to Johann. He was among the ferns now, but he doubted that they were dense enough to hide him properly.
Through the trees Johann heard the woman screaming. An officious male voice informed her that all deserters were to be executed by order of Army High Command.
The woman’s wailing grew louder as the noise of the two Feldgendarmerie and their prisoner got closer to Johann. They were eighteen yards, then fifteen, twelve.… They stopped no more than ten yards from him. He was partly obscured by a tree that they were standing near. If they stepped beyond it they would almost certainly see him. Johann made himself as small as he could and leveled his pistol. If they saw him he would shoot.
The deserter was on his knees.
“Please,” he said, reaching into his coat. “Look.” He held up his Ostmedaille, the medal awarded to those who fought on the eastern front. “I have fought for the Führer for four years. I killed Soviets. I did my duty. All I wanted was to care for my family. To protect them.”
Just then the deserter looked up, and—through the foliage—his eyes fell upon Johann. His face opened wide with surprise.
“Look!” he said to the soldiers. “Look, behind you! A deserter.”
Terrified, Johann leveled his pistol. He would have to use the element of surprise to shoot the soldiers in the woods and hope that their comrades on the road didn’t come after him. He rolled to the right, into the thickest part of the clump of ferns, and hoped the tree would continue to obscure him. He tried to flatten his body so that it would become part of the ground beneath him.
The Feldgendarmerie soldiers looked where the deserter had indicated. One of them kept his rifle on the prisoner, while the other turned to peer into the woods. Johann pressed his body as close to the ground as he could and watched in horror as the soldier began to walk toward him, his eyes scanning the woods. He kicked at a rotted tree stump before creeping farther into the forest.
“Can you see anything?” the other Feldgendarmerie soldier called.
Johann watched as a pair of boots passed five yards away. Surely the soldier couldn’t miss him.…
He cocked the pistol. The boots stopped moving. Johann’s finger tightened on the trigger. He aimed for the soldier’s heart.
“No, nothing here,” the soldier replied. Johann exhaled. The man moved back to join his comrade.
“No, no…,” the deserter pleaded. “I swear I saw a man, just over there. A deserter. Better to take him than a war hero.”
The woods echoed with the loud bang of a single shot. Crows screamed and fluttered from the trees. The forest reverberated for several seconds. Johann looked up to see the two soldiers walking out of the woods. He could no longer see the deserter. Johann heard the engine of a Kübelwagen start and the vehicle pull away.
Finally he stood up. Johann could see the man slumped about twenty yards from him, his face on the ground. He started to run north, the briefcase banging against his legs.
He did not want to hear the screams of the deserter’s wife when she found her husband.
10
Johann found the marker for the Wenck farm nailed to a tree by the side of the crossroads Lehman had talked about. The sign had been carefully hand painted onto a small oval of wood. Johann stood still and listened. There was no sign of life.
Then, out of the dark, came three quick barks, like rounds being fired from a gun. A dog. He looked down the lane toward the farm and saw something. What was that? Fireflies in March? He realized the orange lights in the distance weren’t insects but the glow of a cigarette. Someone was standing at the end of the lane.
Johann began to walk down the track. Soon he heard the patter of paws and felt the nuzzle of a big dog in the palm of his hand. He petted the animal, enjoying the warmth on his hands. The dog fell in behind him, trotting along and panting contentedly. At the end of the lane he saw in the moonlight that he was standing in a courtyard. On one side was a house and on the other three farm buildings. He smelled animals and manure, the damp odor of hay that had gone bad. He looked around for whoever had been smoking.
“Heil Hitler,” a voice grunted. It was hoarse, full of cold. Johann heard the man come to attention.
“Heil Hitler,” Johann replied.
“They’re waiting for you inside, sir,” the soldier said.
Johann swallowed. He was terrified. Momentarily he thought about disappearing into the night. He regained his focus: Only by entering the building would he discover Dieter’s secrets and the threat to Berlin. It was too late now; he must maintain his nerve.
“Which way?” Johann asked. He felt for the P38 on his hip absently.
“Where’s your car?” asked the soldier. Johann could make out a large vehicle, perhaps a truck, behind the man. Was it a troop carrier? He feared this meant there would be large numbers of SS, and looked closer. It appeared to be a general-purpose vehicle—perhaps even civilian, although it had SS plates.
“It broke down,” Johann said.
“Kübelwagen?” the soldier asked.
“Yes,” Johann answered. The man wheezed.
“It’s the transmission,” the soldier eventually said. “Always is. Does your driver require assistance?”
“No,” Johann cut in. “He has help on the way.”
“Very good, sir,” the man said. “Please, this way.”
Johann followed the man through a stone doorway into a farmer’s cottage. They passed through a kitchen area and into a dining room with stone walls and no windows. Two men were sitting at a table that was lit by a candle that had been stuffed into a wine bottle. Both of them stood up, and the three men exchanged the German greeting.
“Sturmbannführer Schnell?” one of them asked, extending his hand. Johann nodded. How strange to be addressed as Diete
r.
“Sturmbannführer Schorner. And this is Obersturmführer Beckmann.”
“Dieter Schnell,” Johann said, shaking both of the men’s hands. He looked around. There was a dresser with crockery piled on it randomly, some linen stuffed in a corner, a photo of a young man wearing a First World War uniform.
“Looks like they left in a hurry,” Johann said.
“Most of the farms here are abandoned,” Beckmann said. He was a large, lumbering man with dark hair and a ruddy complexion. Next to him was a half-eaten salami. The blade of a knife was stuck into the wooden dining table. Beckmann saw Johann gazing at it.
“Hungry?” Beckmann asked.
Despite his fear, Johann was starving. He had no idea when he might eat next. He nodded and Beckmann sliced the salami, cutting a deep mark into the varnished table. He handed a thick disk to Johann. The salty meat made his eyes water with pleasure.
“It’s a lovely table, I know,” Beckmann said, acknowledging the damaged veneer. “Oak, I think. But the heathen Soviets will only burn it anyway.”
“Shall we get down to business?” asked Schorner impatiently, rubbing his hands together. He was smaller than his companion but looked muscular. His head was completely bald. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles was perched on a minute nose. In the half-light, Johann wondered whether Schorner might have lost part of it in combat.
“Yes,” Johann said. “I have the briefcase.” He placed it on the table next to the knife. This was his ploy: offer them what he had in order to learn what it was that they had.
“Excellent,” Schorner said. “We now have all the information in one place.”
“All the information?” Johann asked. He looked inquisitively at Schorner, as if the man might not be revealing the entire truth.
“You know what I’m saying,” he answered, waving his hand dismissively. “There are some files with Reinhard at the Ministry in Berlin, but I believe that if you have the microfilm and we have the paper versions then we have a record of every single prisoner who has passed through a KZ.”
The Nero Decree Page 9
