The Nero Decree

by Greg Williams

  Dieter felt a sudden rush of exhilaration.

  Here, in this room, his search would end. Whatever it was that Nicolas had decided to hide all those years ago, the gift that he had seen fit to hand to Johann but not his stepson, would now be his.

  It had taken eleven years, but Dieter had finally won.

  Inside the room there were two rows of thick iron cabinets, each with a number of drawers, which contained the security boxes. There were probably twenty stacks, with five boxes in each stack. Dieter felt a thrill: all these secrets. He imagined people furtively coming down into this basement to hide precious items, to preserve confidences from their loved ones and from government. He had always thought that all human beings harbored undisclosed thoughts and intentions, had always felt compelled to root out these mysteries and enigmas with vigor and inquiry. He didn’t just ache to see what was in Nicolas’s box; he longed to open each and every one of the containers to determine their contents. The manager passed between the rows of cabinets, moving decisively down one aisle until he reached the middle of the row.

  The manager produced a key from the pocket of his waistcoat, slipped it into the slot in the front of the box, and turned it.

  “Your key, please, Herr Meier,” he requested.

  Dieter felt the object, dull and hard in his hand. Here it was, this small piece of shaped metal that he had searched for for so long, returned from whence it had come. It had been created for just one purpose: to open the box before which he was now standing. He passed it to the manager, who repeated his action and then reached forward and slid the box from the casing that held it.

  “Please, sir, follow me,” the manager said. He led Dieter back along the aisle to an alcove that contained a wooden desk, a chair, and three candles that burned bright enough to give the impression of electric light. Dieter noticed that there was a thick purple, velvet curtain that was drawn back. The manager placed the box on the desk before stepping backward.

  “I will be waiting for you in the anteroom,” he said. “Please call me when you are ready.”

  He nodded deferentially before closing the curtain. Dieter heard his footsteps echoing down the hallway. He thought: In the end it has come down to being alone with a metal box in a basement. He hadn’t imagined that the conclusion would have happened in this way. Nonetheless, he had believed irrevocably that he would fulfill his intentions. He would prevail—of that he had no doubt.

  Dieter lifted the box and moved it slightly. He remembered doing a similar thing when he was a child opening Christmas presents. Other children would tear into the wrapping, but he would wait, contemplating the object, feeling and weighing it in order to distinguish its contents. He considered the box. One of the candles crackled momentarily, but other than that the silence was profound. He lifted the lid carefully; it creaked a little before coming to rest once it had passed a vertical position.

  He took a deep breath and looked inside. There was a manila folder, which was immediately familiar: It was the same as the type used internally within the SS. He reached down and felt to see what was beneath the file.

  A hard shot of alarm tore through him: The box appeared to contain only a large ream of paperwork. For so many years he had imagined that opening it would reveal tangible assets—gold, currency, jewels—so to be faced with something that resembled the in-tray of a Party functionary was startling.

  Dieter’s fingers felt along the edges of the paper to see if there were any gaps where objects might have been concealed, but all he sensed were the borders of the paper. It was strange, unexpected. He steadied himself and recalled Nicolas, who he remembered as a methodical man—an academic who believed in thoroughness and systematic approaches. Maybe there was something within the papers that would take him in an unforeseen direction but which might, nevertheless, prove to be advantageous. Bonds, deeds, or promissory notes, perhaps.

  Dieter pulled the documents out of the box and placed them on the desk. The pile was perhaps two inches high. He opened the top file, which was smeared with dirty fingerprints. He had never seen a document from the Reich Main Security Office that was in such a condition.

  The information had been collected on white paper on which typewritten boxes had been created for the purpose of collecting standard information.

  At the top of the document, he could see that it was created on June 29, 1934.

  Next to the date, the name: Nicolas Meier.

  He had been transferred to Oranienburg a week after Dieter and his comrades had delivered him into the hands of state security officials. Dieter thought back: He remembered the journey to the police station, how Nicolas had begged him to help, to turn from the path he had chosen. His pleas had made no impression upon Dieter. He would not be swayed by the pathetic ramblings of a man whose loyalty lay somewhere other than National Socialism.

  As Nicolas was unloaded from the truck and bundled into the police station, the final words that Dieter could remember him shouting were, “You’ll find out one day, you’ll find out. Maybe then you will understand.”

  The words had stayed with Dieter as he rushed home to find Johann and discover the whereabouts of the key for the security box. A candle crackled again—their quality was so poor now that they tended to burn unevenly. He continued to scan the page.

  His stepfather’s birthplace and the date. His address, his marital status…

  All was in order.

  He read down the form. Halfway down the page there was a box containing information about prisoners’ children. Here, he paused with wonder. It read “None.”

  Surely the officials and bureaucrats would have simply cross-checked in the archives to see if this was true? The search for enemies of the state had been nothing if not thorough and unremitting. All means at the Party’s disposal were used to investigate and root out those who had no place within the Reich. A multitude of bureaucrats were employed to comb through records to ensure that evading one’s heritage was not possible. The Party would not be fooled by fabrication. How was it possible that they had failed to detect this?

  He cast his mind back to what he had discovered at the state archives—the birth records for both him and his half brother had been doctored—before moving the file to the side and picking up the documents beneath. This was confirmed by the next item on the pile—his birth certificate. He scanned down it and saw that all the details were as he thought: the names of his father, Wilhelm, and mother, Hannah. The place and date of birth were all correct. How was it, then, that when he had looked in the archive he and Johann had been listed as orphans? The next document was Johann’s birth certificate, and Dieter understood the details on the certificate to be correct. His father was Nicolas and his mother Hannah.

  His mind reeled with possibilities. Then it struck him: This is what Nicolas had meant by “Maybe then you will understand.” As an academic he would have had easy access to all state archives. With a little careful manipulation of the staff and prudent adaptation of the official record, he would have been able to change his son’s and stepson’s legacies, thereby protecting them from pursuit should he be arrested because of his political beliefs. Nicolas knew that he would be targeted by the Nazis. If it had been him who changed the certificates in the state archive, it had been done to protect Dieter and his half brother.

  Bewildered, he put the document to one side and looked at the next item in the file. He started. At the top of the pile was a plain envelope with his name written on it. He ripped it open. Inside he found a letter, which was clearly old. He unfolded it and realized that it had been sent to his mother.

  January 14, 1915

  Dear Mrs. Schnell,

  With great regret I write to inform you that your husband, Wilhelm Schnell, was found dead in his quarters this morning. It is my sad duty to inform you that he died at his own hand.

  My condolences to you and your family. It may come as some comfort to you to know that, as a result of some of the clinical techniques and modern medic
ines we have been administering since his arrival in September last year following his injuries in Mons, his condition had greatly improved and, as of late, he had been in good humor.

  Please contact me by return so that we may make arrangements for his body to be sent to his family for burial.

  I remain at your service.

  Yours sincerely,

  Joerg Hartmann

  Dieter looked at the address at the top of the letter. Psychiatric hospital, Rheinau. He found himself hardly able to breathe.

  This could not be right. His father had died as part of the Sixth Army at Neuve-Chapelle in March 1915. He was sure of it. It was what he had been told since he was a child.

  He read the letter for a second time and then a third.… He put the piece of paper down, looked away, and then tried again, hoping that its words might have altered.

  But they were still there.

  Dieter threw his arm out and knocked over one of the candleholders. He clawed at the curtain, tearing it from its fastenings. He brought his hands up and held his head as if to try to contain the tumultuous thoughts inside, before smashing a clenched fist onto the wooden desk in frustration, smearing wax with the back of his hand. He grabbed another candleholder and brought it closer to the letter.

  Had he been told a lie? Was it the case that his father had not died gloriously in battle, but had taken his own life in an insane asylum?

  He reexamined the piece of paper. The words made no sense to him. His mind was able to discern their shape and their literal meaning, but the significance was so shocking, so intolerable, that his mind could barely process them.

  This simply couldn’t be true.

  He paced around and tried to think matters through clearly.

  While it was clear that it was Nicolas who had placed the birth certificates and the letter in the security box, it was impossible for him to have included the document from Oranienburg-Sachsenhausen or addressed the envelope—and the document had been arranged carefully at the top of the pile so that it could not be ignored.

  Of course.

  Johann.

  He had meant Dieter to find the key and come here all along.

  The revelation of how Nicolas had protected them was his revenge.

  Dieter stood up, his heart racing. The disclosure affected every aspect of who he was—and what he believed. Dieter’s father—the hero of the Great War—had been but a figment of his imagination. The shockwave was compounded by his belief that Nicolas, whose demise he had engineered, had altered the records solely to protect him and Johann.

  He couldn’t bear it—he began to burn each of the documents. The dry paper flared and began to burn vigorously, warming him in the frigid vault. He felt as if the foundations of his being had been torn from him. He was rootless now, lost and without significance.

  There was only one other person who knew: Johann. That is, if we wasn’t dead already in Friedrichstraße station.

  In the corridor the manager smelled burning paper.

  “Is everything all right, Herr Meier?” he called. The smoke became stronger, and he stepped toward the curtained-off section. It was strictly forbidden for him to disturb clients when they were in the middle of inspecting the contents of a security box, but the odor of burning was highly irregular.

  “Herr Meier?” he called out again. “Do you require assistance of any kind? Herr Meier?”

  The manager pulled opened the curtain, and Dieter—thunder-faced and apoplectic with rage—pushed past him and into the corridor.

  “Herr Meier, would you like me to replace the box?” the manager blurted out as Dieter bolted.

  “Do with it what you will!” Dieter shouted, his voice echoing on the staircase.

  The manager stared at the table. It was covered in wax from one of the candles that had been knocked over. The security box remained open and the key had been left inside. Beside the box was a set of charred documents, a tiny pile of ash and smoldering paper.

  The bank manager hurriedly began sweeping away the mess, unaware that he was clearing away a vast catastrophe that could not be set right through practical-minded assistance.

  Dieter got into his car and sat for a moment. There was a light drizzle falling. Perhaps it would clear the foul air that hung over the city like a shroud. A few yards from his car a wooden carousel horse lay on top of the mangled remains of a vehicle that had part of a building collapse on it. The horse’s eye was trained on him, sightless and sinister.

  He tried to calm his breathing. The discovery had thrown his entire world out of kilter. He had perhaps not expected riches, but he had hoped for enough to see him through the peril of the coming years. Despite the imminent downfall of the city he had dared to imagine a life beyond the grim privation of his current situation. Should he have found something of worth he could perhaps have built a life in the south without attracting any attention. He could have slipped from the city at the last possible moment before the noose tightened.

  Now, he had nothing.

  Worse than nothing: He would have to live with the horrifying truth about his father that had been revealed to him by that traitorous snake Johann who had gotten to the vault before him.

  Then it occurred to him: When Johann planted the file in the security box he could quite easily have removed items of value. They would now be in his possession, along with the briefcase containing the microfilm. Maybe Dieter still had a chance. He would take back what Johann had stolen and he would kill his half brother this time.

  He felt the rage coursing through him now. He would have his revenge.

  He roared recklessly through the chaotic streets toward Lehrter Bahnhof in the Kübelwagen. What he had to do was clear to him now. He needed to finish the job; he needed to ensure that his half brother would end his days in Berlin.

  29

  They were swept down the tunnel, hurtling toward an unknown end. Johann, wild-eyed, watched for opportunities to halt their progress. He held Nadine’s hand on one side and Anja’s on the other, knowing that if he saw a fixed point to claw at, he would be forced to drop one of their hands in order to grasp it.

  The tunnel walls rushed past, and any glimpse of salvation passed in an instant. Johann glanced upward—the water continued to rise. There were perhaps only three more feet of air. Pretty soon the water would carry them so high that their heads would scrape the roof. Beyond that there was only so much time before the water level would rise above their mouths. He could feel only a fuzzy, indistinct movement below his knees when he moved his legs; there was no longer any sensation in his feet. Each of them would soon go into shock. The cold was shutting down their systems. If they remained in the water much longer they would develop hypothermia. The symptoms—shivering and muscle mis-coordination, turning to amnesia and major organ failure—were wretchedly familiar to Johann after years at the front.

  “Look!”

  It was Nadine. She was gesturing above the water, but Johann was unable to distinguish what she was pointing at. Then it came into focus; there was a split in the tunnel ahead where the tracks divided in two directions. The parting meant that there was a large tiled column in the middle.

  “There’s a ladder!” Anja shouted above the noise of the water. The metal structure was about two feet across. Johann looked up to see where it might take them but realized it was pointless unless they managed to grasp it. He felt Anja trying to move her body farther into the middle of the channel. Nadine was doing the same on the other side of him. Johann would have to trust them; there was nothing he could do but continue to clutch their frozen hands.

  As the tunnel widened for the two separate tunnels, the water began to speed up and its level began to diminish. The three of them could see the walls rising next to them, and the tunnel opening began to appear larger. Nadine and Anja were both poised, ready to grab the ladder, although it wasn’t clear which tunnel the water would drag them down. After a few seconds they felt themselves being carried inexorably to the left
. Each paddled wildly to the right, trying to compensate for the pull of the current. The water was too powerful, and Johann realized that only Nadine had a chance of seizing the ladder.

  As Johann and Anja kicked with every ounce of their reserves of strength, Nadine reached toward one of the struts, urging her slender fingers forward, stretching them with her entire being. Johann looked down the tunnel before them; to be dragged into that opening would surely be the end. He kept the arm attached to Nadine flexible, while stiffening his body and yanking Anja as close as he was able toward him.

  Suddenly they stopped moving.

  He could barely believe it. Nadine had hold of a ladder rung. She shrieked with effort as she held tight. Johann and Anja were still at the mercy of the water while the girl hung on.

  “Climb across me!” Johann instructed Anja. He was unable to grip the ladder as he was holding both Nadine and Anja, but perhaps his wife could get over to Nadine. Anja frantically kicked and struggled her way past him. He expected that, at any moment, Nadine would lose her grip. Her body was surely at its limit; the force of the water and the weight of his and Anja’s bodies must inevitably push it beyond its capacity.

  But Nadine held firm.

  “Yes!” the girl shouted, and he knew that somehow Anja had made it to the ladder. Then, a moment later, he was astonished to feel his body being dragged against the current until he too was within reach of the ladder, to which Nadine and Anja were both clinging. He grabbed a slimy rung and hauled himself up so that his shoulders were above the water. Once his head was clear of the freezing froth he looked to see Nadine and Anja, both of them shaking with cold, but both smiling through chattering teeth.

  Johann looked up to see, through a hole about three feet in diameter, a manhole about fifteen feet above them. He began to climb. The ladder was slippery and his body was shaking, but he progressed steadily, checking for both Nadine, who was directly below him, and Anja, who was at the rear. Every so often he paused for breath, clinging to the structure without looking downward; heights had never been a strong point of his. He closed his eyes momentarily as if to convince himself that he was resting.