Black Cross wwi-1

by Greg Iles

The ball rolled forward two meters and stopped.

  He planted both feet, ducked, and threw his left shoulder backward, catching Sturm full force just above the groin. The explosion of air from the sergeant’s lungs silenced the field, so that when he flipped over the major’s back and hit the ground the thud was audible to all. The other pursuer stood dumbfounded while Schörner darted back to the ball, drove it past the goalie and into the ammunition crate with a bang.

  A shout went up from Gauss’s team, though even they were stunned by the major’s willingness to give Sturm a dose of his own medicine. Grinning as though he had never felt better, Schörner walked over to Sturm, who lay gasping on the ground, and offered him a hand. Sturm did not so much bat the hand away as refuse it, but his rage was plain. Schörner turned, waved to Sergeant Gauss, then walked back over to the headquarters building and collected his clothes.

  Frau Hagan was shaking her head. “Schörner will pay for that one day,” she said.

  “But he’s a major,” Rachel pointed out. “Sturm is only a sergeant.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Nearly every man here is loyal to Sturm. You see the brown uniforms. They’re all Death’s Head troops. Schörner’s from a different division, the Das Reich. They fought everybody from the French to the Russians. Sturm and his men never shot anything but unarmed prisoners in rear areas. Schörner despises them, and they hate his guts.”

  “Maybe they’ll kill each other,” Rachel said, “and we can go home.”

  When the bell rang for the midday ration, Rachel took Jan and Hannah with her to the soup pot, where a Russian “green” dispensed watery soup and a little bread. She also took Frau Hagan’s bowl, to save the Block Leader the trouble of the queue. She had already learned to position herself in line so that her family’s ration was dipped from the bottom of the pot, where the cabbage leaves had settled. Still, the food was not enough to keep Jan and Hannah healthy. Frau Hagan chastised her for it, but Rachel divided half her ration between the children.

  When Jan and Hannah were asleep, Rachel followed the Block Leader back outside. She had just caught up with her when a shadow darted out from behind the Punishment Tree and blocked their way. Before Rachel even recognized the man, Frau Hagan spat at him.

  “Back, worm!”

  Ariel Weitz flinched before the Block Leader’s anger. “You’d better listen,” he warned. “Or you’ll be on the Tree.”

  “State your business,” Frau Hagan growled, “then piss off.”

  Weitz pointed at Rachel. “The major wants to see her.”

  “Schörner?” Frau Hagan’s brows drew together. “What does Schörner want with this girl?”

  “Why don’t you ask him, my fat Blockführer?”

  “She’ll be at his office in a moment.” Frau Hagan glowered at the informer. “Leave us, worm.”

  The informer scowled, then hurried off.

  Frau Hagan spat again. “Weitz is a tick growing fat on the Nazi wolf. One day I will squeeze him until he bursts with hot blood.”

  “What can Major Schörner want with me?” Rachel asked. “Not Jan? Not my little boy!”

  “No, no,” Frau Hagan said reassuringly. “Weitz would simply snatch the boy and take him to Brandt’s quarters. With Schörner it could be anything. He may want you to clean his quarters. He may want to ask you something about Holland. Then again . . . it could be you he wants.”

  “Me?”

  Frau Hagan gave her a knowing gaze. “The night after Himmler was here, women were brought into the camp. As a reward to Sturm and his men. That was the screaming you heard the night you became door guard. The screaming I refused to hear. Don’t look that way. There was nothing I could do for them. Anyway, the women were from Ravensbrück. The main women’s camp. I don’t know exactly what happened, but Schörner didn’t take part in it. He doesn’t mix with Sturm and his thugs. Considers himself a German gentleman. Still, Sturm’s little party may have excited him. He is a man, after all. Usually he buries his anger in a bottle. But who knows? Be careful, Dutch girl.”

  Rachel tried to control her rapid breathing. She felt lightheaded. “Should I resist?”

  “This isn’t Amsterdam. Choice doesn’t exist here. Remember your children. I’ll make sure they’re watched until you return.”

  “Please . . . thank you.” Rachel squeezed her arm. “Oh, what am I to do?”

  The older woman looked uncomfortable. “Go now. If you’re late, he will be harder on you.”

  20

  Rachel stood terrified before Major Wolfgang Schörner. After her experiences with the SS and Frau Hagan’s warnings, he seemed more apparition than man. He sat calmly behind his desk, wearing a clean gray uniform. He had changed clothes since the soccer game. Rachel could hear Ariel Weitz behind her, shuffling his feet. Schörner inclined his head toward the door, which then opened and closed quietly behind her.

  Schörner frowned. “A crude man,” he said. “But useful.”

  Rachel said nothing. She found herself trying to guess Schörner’s age. Thirty seemed about right, though the eyepatch made him look older. Unlike Sergeant Sturm and the other SS men, Schörner was not scrupulously clean shaven. A day’s shadow of dark beard grew evenly from his cheeks to his jawline. The two top buttons of his tunic were undone. He drummed his fingers on the desktop.

  “You are Frau Rachel Jansen?”

  Rachel nodded. “Ja, Herr Major.”

  Schörner’s face brightened instantly. “But I thought you were from Holland!”

  “Ich bin Holländerin, Herr Major.”

  “But your German is perfect! Perfektes Hochdeutsch!”

  “I spent the first seven years of my life in Magdeburg, Herr Major. I was moved to Holland as an orphan, after the Great War.”

  Schörner leaned back in his chair and regarded Rachel. “I’m sorry they cut your hair. In this camp that is done before the medical inspection, so I had no opportunity to intervene. The barber told me it was quite beautiful.”

  Rachel tried not to appear in a hurry to leave the office.

  “I noticed you at that inspection,” Schörner said softly. He sounded almost embarrassed by this confidence. After what seemed an age, he said, “You remind me of someone.”

  Rachel swallowed. “Who is that, Herr Major?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  The longer Rachel stood there, the more uncomfortable she felt. “Herr Major,” she said hoarsely, “what is it that I have done?”

  “You have done nothing yet, Frau Jansen. But that will soon change, I hope.”

  Schörner stood and stepped from behind the desk. He was a tall man, lean but strongly built. Only now did Rachel notice the bottle of brandy standing open on the bookshelf against the wall, three quarters empty. Schörner poured himself a glass and drank it in one swallow. Then he tipped the glass toward Rachel.

  “No, thank you, Herr Major.”

  Schörner turned his palms upward as if to say, “What can I do, then?” He took a step toward her, hesitated, then took another. Rachel felt a shiver run across her shoulders. She suddenly realized that Major Schörner was very drunk.

  “Did you come here straight from Amsterdam?” he asked.

  “Yes, Herr Major.”

  “This place must be a shock to you.”

  She didn’t know how to respond. “I try to make the best of adverse circumstances.”

  Schörner’s eyes opened wider. “Just so! That is exactly what I am doing myself!”

  Rachel’s puzzlement showed on her face.

  Schörner sighed deeply. “The SS, Frau Jansen — the true SS — was established as an elite order. Like knights. At least that was the idea in the beginning. Lately, all manner of men wear the Sig Runes. Estonians, Ukrainians, even Arabs. My God, when I joined the SS a single dental filling was enough to disqualify a man.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Nothing is as it used to be.”

  Rachel tried not to move a muscle. The change from the enthusiastic athlete of the socc
er game to the drunken officer before her was disorienting.

  “You’ve seen the guards here,” said Schörner, moving closer. “Scum, most of them. Some were press-ganged from the Bremen jails. Not one of them has seen real combat.” He lifted her chin with his right hand. “Does this talk surprise you?”

  Schörner’s touch had paralyzed her. “I — I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Herr Major.”

  Schörner let his hand drop. “Of course you don’t. How could you? While I was fighting in Russia, you were hiding in a cellar in Holland, yes?”

  “As you say, Herr Major.”

  Schörner seemed to find humor in this. “I don’t blame you for hiding, you know, not a bit. The world is a difficult place for your people just now.” He looked into his bookcase. “Have you ever been to England?”

  “No, Herr Major.”

  “I was at Oxford, you know.”

  It’s remarkable, thought Rachel. I am standing here having a conversation with an SS officer. A member of the murderous legion that never speaks except to command, and those commands given almost exclusively to order preparation for death. “I didn’t know that,” she said awkwardly. “You were one of the German Rhodes scholars?”

  Schörner shook his head. “A regular student. A paying student. Anyway, Oxford terminated the German Rhodes scholarships in 1939. I was at King’s College. My father’s ideal of a gentleman was the English public school man. Absurd, isn’t it?”

  He walked slowly around Rachel. With great effort she remained perfectly still. When Schörner next spoke, his mouth was practically in her right ear.

  “Miles from the battle,” he murmured.

  Without any preamble he slipped his right hand into Rachel’s shift and cupped her left breast. She felt a jolt like an electric shock, then a sudden weakening of her bladder. Just as quickly she remembered the diamonds and forced her legs together. Schörner squeezed her breast gently, like a woman at market appraising a melon. She shivered.

  “Be still.”

  Rachel obeyed. Schörner stroked her breast for several moments, then removed his hand. She felt tears welling in her eyes. His hand fell to her right hip. His breathing grew shallow. She could endure no more. Only a moment ago he had been speaking to her like a human being. Now. . . She took one step forward and turned sharply to face him.

  “Herr Major!” she said in the most indignant and aristocratic German she could muster. “Does a gentleman force himself upon a lady?”

  Schörner stared at her with a mixture of anger and fascination. Rachel searched frantically for some frame of reference the SS officer might relate to. “Would you have me against my will?” she asked. “I should think that would be like stealing a war medal.”

  Schörner seemed intrigued by her reaction.

  Rachel pushed ahead. What had she to lose now? “You say you are a man of honor. Would you falsely wear a medal for gallantry? It is the same with the act of love.”

  Schörner smiled sadly, then scratched at the edge of his eyepatch. “There is an important difference, Frau Jansen.” He pulled his Knight’s Cross from beneath his collar. “Medals cannot keep a man warm at night,” he said, fingering the fine ribbon of red, white, and black. “They cannot erase the loneliness of this place for even a moment. But you could, I think. One hour in your arms could do it. At least for a while.”

  Rachel was speechless. Here was one of the men who had murdered her husband and God knew how many others in cold blood, now asking her to go to his bed. “Herr — Herr Major,” she stammered, “I appeal to you as a gentleman. I am a new widow. I am not ready for this.”

  Schörner’s face locked itself into a mask of formality. “I see,” he said stiffly. “You are still grieving. You require time to purge the memory of your husband from your mind.” He walked to the window and looked out at a squad of Sturm’s soldiers drilling in the yard. “How long do you think you will need?”

  Rachel was dumbfounded. “I don’t. . . Six months?”

  Major Schörner took a deep breath and paused, as if mentally consulting a list of social mores. “Impossible,” he said finally. “Outside, the normal mourning period is quite long, of course. Up to a year.” He turned from the window. “Here things are different. We are at war, after all. Thousands of women are made widows every day. You cannot let your youth pass by simply because of a little sentimentality.”

  Rachel tried to think of some further argument, but came up with nothing.

  “I shall give you one week,” Schörner said. Then he moved back behind his desk and sat down.

  “Is that all, Herr Major?”

  “Yes. Oh, just a moment. From now on you will receive a special diet. When the evening meal is finished, go to the alley between the hospital and the Experimental Block. Inmate Weitz will meet you there with food.”

  Schörner picked up a pen and began scratching on a form that lay on his desk. Rachel felt a sudden wild courage, like the implacable instinct that had driven her over the block fence to search for the diamonds. “May I bring my children, Herr Major?”

  “What?” Schörner looked up and blinked.

  “May I bring my children to eat this special food?”

  “Oh.” A knowing gleam came into his eye. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Rachel turned and stepped toward the door. She stopped at the sound of Schörner’s voice.

  “If you change your mind before the week is out, you can find me in my quarters. I am there every night. Do not take too long.” He returned to the file on his desk. “Auf wiedersehen.”

  Rachel nodded to the door. “Auf wiedersehen, Herr Major.”

  Frau Hagan was waiting behind the cinema annex of the administration building. Rachel did not walk directly toward her, but toward the barracks area. Frau Hagan contrived to walk in such a way that their paths seemed naturally to intersect in the Appellplatz.

  “What did he want?” she asked.

  “Me.”

  “For sex?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you. You came here too healthy. I’m surprised it was Schörner, though.” They walked for a few moments in silence. “At least it isn’t Sturm. You might not survive a night with him. He’s an animal. He would throw you to his pack when he was finished.”

  “God, what am I to do?”

  “You must go to him tonight?”

  “No. He gave me a week.”

  “What?”

  “He said I could have one week to finish mourning. As if even a year would be enough!”

  Frau Hagan stopped walking. “I think the major is taken with you, Dutch girl. As far as I can recall, Schörner has never had a woman in this camp. And why else would he let you wait a week? He could have you right this minute. There is nothing to stop him.”

  Rachel drew a quick breath. “He told me I remind him of someone. I think perhaps . . . perhaps he has some remnants of decency left.”

  The Pole seized Rachel’s wrist in a clawlike grip. “Don’t ever think that! If you walked within a meter of the wire he would shoot you himself. If you disobeyed an order he would have you on the Tree without a second thought.”

  Rachel felt herself losing control. As they neared the block, she threw her arms around Frau Hagan like a terrified child. “Why me?” she wailed. “I am a Jew. I thought I was like a disease to the SS.”

  Frau Hagan stroked Rachel’s nearly bald scalp. “That is what Goebbels and Himmler say. But people are people. I know of a case where an SS man actually fell in love with a Jewess. They were both shot.”

  “What am I to do, then?”

  Frau Hagan gently disengaged Rachel and held her at arms’ length. “At the end of the week you will have to give in,” she said firmly. “This is not Amsterdam. You have no choice.”

  But as they entered the block, Rachel decided that maybe she did have a choice. If she had to yield to Schörner in seven days regardless, why shouldn’t she try to get something out of it?

  Some
thing for her children.

  21

  It is a curious fact that men who share extreme hardship — even those who previously dislike or even hate each other — form unspoken bonds that last forever. Not because of insensitivity or stupidity do armies train their recruits by driving them up to and beyond the point of maximum endurance. For thousands of years this system has forged the callow young men of numberless nations into soldiers ready to die for their comrades — even if these comrades are bound only by common hatred of their tormentor: the army.

  Of course the process that bonds people need not be so extreme. Strangers standing at a bus stop will studiously ignore each other for quite some time. But let the bus be late, let a hard rain begin lashing the street, and the fragmented crowd quickly becomes a group united by resentment against the bus company and its lazy drivers.

  It was a range of experiences between these two extremes that began to bridge the chasm between Mark McConnell and Jonas Stern. Though McConnell spent much time alone studying German and organic chemistry, and Stern climbed ice-slickened poles until he could do it wearing a blindfold, the two men found themselves thrown together on night marches, obstacle courses, at meals, and, most importantly, in the dark hut behind the castle in the exhausted minutes before sleep took them. A thaw was inevitable, and Smith should have seen it. There was simply no escaping the fact that the two men had no supporters at the castle other than themselves. No grumbling cadre of brothers-in-arms, as the commando recruits had, no friendly colleagues, as the instructors had. They were two civilians alone, training in a program wholly outside the normal routine of the Commando Depot.

  For the staff they were an inconvenience, a disruption to be tolerated only at the request of the commanding officer, who was merely doing a favor for a friend. And excepting Sergeant Ian McShane, that tolerance was markedly thin. Some of Stern’s early remarks about McConnell’s pacifism had gotten around, and the instructors quickly came to view the American with the jaundiced eye that many in Oxford had. In Stern’s case the prejudice was more open. Anti-Semitism was widespread in the British army, but Stern’s German accent put him right over the top. He could hardly pass anyone at the castle without drawing a dark look or muttered imprecation.