Black Cross wwi-1

by Greg Iles

  42

  Jonas Stern marched across the frozen Appellplatz like Erwin Rommel inspecting the Afrika Korps. His only weapon was his Walther PPK; he’d given his silenced Schmeisser to his father and his SS dagger to Rachel Jansen. Whenever one of the SS men smoking at the back gate inhaled, an orange glow lit the upper half of his face. By this light Stern saw that two of the guards were privates, the other a sergeant major. The men still had not noticed him.

  “Hauptscharführer!” he snapped, singling out the senior man. “You are not in the habit of saluting superior officers?”

  Sergeant Gunther Sturm looked up in amazement at the gray-green uniform and Iron Cross First Class. An angry SD colonel was the last thing he expected to encounter at Totenhausen’s back gate.

  “Standartenführer!” he cried. “Heil Hitler!”

  The privates quickly followed his example.

  Stern raised his chin and looked down his nose at the bull-necked sergeant. “You are Hauptscharführer Sturm?”

  Sturm’s eyes widened. “Jawohl, Standartenführer.”

  “Don’t look so frightened. I have bigger fish to fry than you. I am here to arrest Major Wolfgang Schörner for conspiring to reveal state secrets. I shall require your assistance, Hauptscharführer, and that of these men as well. Obergruppenführer Kaltenbrunner in Berlin will appreciate your help.”

  Sturm’s stubbled face went slack, then brightened with malicious glee. “Standartenführer,” he said unctuously, “I’m not one to complain about a superior, but I have had suspicions of my own about the Sturmbannführer.”

  “Why did you not report these suspicions?”

  Sturm was momentarily at a loss. “I’ve been searching for proof, Standartenführer. One does not accuse a holder of the Knight’s Cross lightly.”

  “Herr Schörner will not wear the Knight’s Cross much longer, Hauptscharführer.”

  Sturm looked at the two privates, astonished by his good luck. “What do you want us to do, Standartenführer?”

  Stern glanced at his watch: 7:37. The women would begin moving in thirteen minutes. Now he regretted giving up the silenced Schmeisser. “Here is the situation, Hauptscharführer. We believe Allied commandos intend to attack this camp tonight to assassinate Herr Doktor Brandt and destroy his laboratory. We believe Schörner arranged this attack through contacts with the Polish Resistance.”

  Gunther Sturm could barely contain his excitement. “The Herr Doktor was right!”

  “SD reinforcements will arrive from Berlin within thirty minutes,” Stern went on. “But with your help I will immediately arrest Schörner and remove him from the camp, to prevent him from assisting these commandos in any way. Are you ready?”

  Sturm jerked a Luger from his belt and shook it in the air. “I know how to deal with traitors, Standartenführer. If Schörner resists, I’ll blow his head off!”

  Stern nodded. “Bring these men as well. Schörner is a dangerous man.”

  Sturm looked suddenly uncertain. “I must leave one behind, Standartenführer. The commandant could have me shot if I left this gate unguarded.”

  Stern glared at the private who stood on the other side of the wire. “This is your last smoke break,” he said. “Don’t take your eyes off of those trees. The commandos will almost certainly attack from the hills. Is that clear?”

  “Jawohl, Standartenführer!”

  The gray-faced private whipped around instantly, his eyes on the dark trees that had seemed benign only a moment ago.

  “To the headquarters, Hauptscharführer!”

  Stern walked a step ahead of the two SS men as they crossed the Appellplatz.

  “Perhaps I should have my dogs patrol the back fence?” Sturm suggested.

  “No need for that yet,” said Stern. The last thing he needed was attack dogs prowling the area of the E-Block. “We will deploy the dogs only at the last moment. We want them fresh.”

  “Very good, Standartenführer.”

  They passed the rear of the cinema annex, which was contiguous to the headquarters building. As they reached the front door of the headquarters, it opened and a tall officer wearing a Waffen SS uniform and a black eyepatch stepped through it.

  Wolfgang Schörner froze in midstep when he saw the SD uniform.

  Stern calmly drew his Walther and aimed it at the astonished major. “Sturmbannführer Wolfgang Schörner, by order of the Führer I place you under arrest.”

  Major Schörner stared in amazement at Sergeant Sturm, who had drawn his Luger, then looked back at Stern. “I beg your pardon, Standartenführer?”

  “You heard me. Relieve him of his pistol, Hauptscharführer.”

  Schörner made no move to resist as Sturm yanked his Luger from its holster. “Who is this man, Hauptscharführer?”

  Stern held up his hand. “I am Standartenführer Ritter Stern from the Sicherheitsdienst in Berlin, as you can plainly see.”

  “I received no communication about your arrival.”

  “Of course you didn’t. All will become clear in Berlin.”

  “Berlin?” Schörner’s eyes moved up and down Stern’s uniform, taking in each button, patch, badge, crease, and stain. “Hauptscharführer,” he said, “the Standartenführer seems to be missing his dagger. Don’t you find that interesting?”

  Stern waved his pistol toward the hospital, where the Mercedes waited. “To my car, Hauptscharführer,” he said tersely.

  But Gunther Sturm was looking at Schörner. Sturm knew the face of guilt, and as much as he hated the major, Schörner was not acting guilty of anything.

  “I am perfectly willing to go to Berlin,” Schörner said equably. “But shouldn’t we at least ask to see this man’s papers first? An SD officer who loses his dagger is subject to arrest himself.”

  Sturm looked uncertainly at Stern. “Standartenführer?”

  Stern glanced impatiently at his watch, an officer in a hurry. “You will regret this,” he said. He brought out his wallet and handed it to Sturm, who passed it straight to Schörner.

  “These papers give you authority to inspect security arrangements at Totenhausen.” Schörner looked up. “Not to place me under arrest.”

  “By statute, the SD has complete powers of examination and arrest over the SS,” Stern said. “I do not need a written order to arrest a traitor.” He lowered his voice to a menacing pitch. “Now, move to my car.”

  “These orders are dated four days ago,” Schörner observed, not moving an inch. “Did it take you four days to drive up from Berlin?”

  Before Stern could respond, Schörner said, “The suntan interests me as well. Has the sun begun shining in the Tiergarten in the dead of winter?”

  Stern raised his pistol to Schörner’s face.

  The major showed no sign of fear.

  Stern wanted to pull the trigger, but he knew it would be the worst possible mistake he could make.

  “Where is your dagger, Standartenführer?” Schörner asked.

  Stern forced himself not to look down at the empty sheath on his belt. This showed considerable nerve, considering that his mind had gone blank.

  A bemused look crossed Schörner’s face. “With all respect, Standartenführer, on what day did you receive your dagger?”

  It was funny in a way, thought Stern. He was replaying the scene in the Jewish Women’s Block, when he had been questioned to prove he was a Jew. Only Major Schörner had not asked him what year it was on the Hebrew calendar. “I have not come here to answer your questions,” he snapped. “You will answer mine.”

  Schörner glanced at Sturm. “What do you think, Hauptscharführer? A simple enough question, don’t you think? Even you could answer that one.”

  Gunther Sturm wore the expression of an attack dog being given commands by two masters. He hated Schörner viciously, but those very qualities he hated most made the idea of Schörner betraying Germany an impossibility. With agonizing slowness he turned until his Luger was aimed just to the right of Stern’s belly.

&
nbsp; “If the Standartenführer could answer the question?” he said in an apologetic tone. “When did you receive your dagger?”

  Stern had always known this moment would come someday. A moment without options. A truly impossible situation. He had simply overestimated his abilities, while underestimating those of a combat veteran named Wolfgang Schörner. He thought of the cyanide capsule he had earlier transferred from his Star of David medallion into his pocket, but he felt no inclination to try to swallow it. No matter what the bastards did to him, they would not break him before the gas descended on the camp.

  “I don’t recall the exact day,” he said. “It was 1940.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Schörner, “since all ceremonial daggers are awarded only on November ninth.”

  Stern looked at his watch. 7:40. His only thought was to give the women time to get the children to the E-Block. And he knew he could do that. “There is only one solution,” he said. “Call Obergruppenführer Kaltenbrunner at SD headquarters in Berlin.” Stern reversed the Walther in his hand and handed it butt first to Sergeant Sturm.

  Bewildered, the SS man accepted the weapon.

  A faint smile touched Schörner’s mouth. “Where did you meet this man, Hauptscharführer?” he asked.

  “At the back gate, Sturmbannführer.”

  “You have someone guarding the gate now?”

  “Ja.”

  “How many technicians are in the factory?”

  “The full shift. Thirty-four men. They’re taking the place apart.”

  Schörner nodded while he thought. “I want every one of the technicians moved into the cinema immediately and placed under guard. Then bolt every door on the factory. Clear?”

  “Zu befehl, Sturmbannführer.”

  “One call to Berlin will tell me if the major here is fish or fowl. I want those technicians locked in the cinema by the time I’m off the phone. The civilian nurses as well. Every one of them. Get moving.”

  Sergeant Sturm hurried into the headquarters building. Schörner turned back to Stern. “This has been most entertaining. If you are who you say you are, I will soon be without a dagger myself. If not, well. . . ” Schörner looked over Stern’s shoulder. “You’d better come with us, Schütze.”

  With the barrel of a private’s rifle between his shoulder blades, Stern followed Schörner into the headquarters building. He stole one last glance at his watch as he passed through the door.

  7:41.

  “I’ve heard no explosion yet.”

  “He’s still got nine minutes,” said McConnell from the kitchen table. He turned to the stove, where Anna stood warming herself. “Would we definitely hear a grenade on the hill?”

  “Yes. I think we should go now. Something feels wrong to me.”

  “That’s just nerves. It’s not time yet.”

  McConnell was feeling butterflies himself, as if he were waiting to run the biggest race of his life. He had just gulped a large glass of water to make up for the fluid loss from a half hour inside his anti-gas suit. His air cylinder stood on the floor, the corrugated hose wrapped around it.

  Anna turned from the stove. “I think they’ve caught him,” she said.

  McConnell angrily slapped the table. “Then why haven’t we heard shooting? An alarm? Something? You think he would let them take him without a fight?”

  “He might. His father is there, remember.”

  McConnell took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. Arranged in front of him were his toggle rope, his clear vinyl head mask, the Mauser rifle he’d traded from Stan Wojik, and the bright swatch of tartan that Sir Donald Cameron had given him on the bridge at Achnacarry. The note from Churchill was folded in Anna’s diary, which he’d hidden in the leg of his oilskin suit. Stern’s gas suit was folded in the backseat of Greta’s Volkswagen.

  But where was Stern?

  Anna touched his arm. “He’s relying on us to send down the gas,” she said. “I think we should wait on the hill.”

  “I’m doing what he told me,” McConnell said doggedly. He took another long drink of water. “Eight more minutes. We’ll make it to the hill in time.”

  She reached out and took his hand. “All right. Whatever happens, I’m glad for last night. It will make everything easier.”

  McConnell started to ask what she meant, but he didn’t. He had a feeling he knew.

  When Avram Stern saw his son walking back across the Appellplatz ahead of Sergeant Sturm and an SS private, he almost panicked. Instead, he tried to think like his son. Jonas had come this far without getting caught; he must know what he was doing.

  The three men walked around the cinema and disappeared. Could Jonas be trying to reach the main gate? It was fifty meters away, and difficult to see clearly in the darkness, but Avram would know if a man passed through it.

  No one did.

  Two minutes after Jonas disappeared, Avram saw Sergeant Sturm burst from the rear door of the headquarters and sprint toward the factory with five SS men behind him. Had Jonas made a break for freedom? Had he concocted some diversion to draw the SS away from the E-Block? Avram felt a flash of fear as white-coated lab technicians began streaming out of the factory gate with Sergeant Sturm’s men prodding them along.

  The soft crunch of footsteps on the snow behind him told him Rachel and the other chosen women were slipping into the Jewish Children’s Block in preparation for the move to the E-Block. He looked down at his wristwatch — an illegal item he had accepted as payment for a repair job on a pair of SS knee boots — the wristwatch of a dead Jew.

  7:41.

  Jonas had planned to short out the electricity prior to the attack. That would not happen now. Without the cover of absolute darkness, the women and children would have to cross open ground in plain view of the sentry standing at the back gate.

  They would never make it.

  With quivering hands the shoemaker unslung the silenced Schmeisser and started for the back gate.

  “Berlin never heard of you.”

  Major Schörner put down the telephone and smiled.

  Stern stared impassively into the black barrel of his own Walther.

  “I talked to Kaltenbrunner himself,” Schörner said. “He wants me to send you to Berlin for questioning. But — I have a few questions of my own for you first.”

  A door banged open behind Stern. He did not turn, but the clatter of boots told him at least three men had entered the office.

  “Sturmbannführer, the technicians are locked in the cinema!” said Sergeant Sturm. “The factory is sealed!”

  “And the nurses?” Schörner asked.

  “The three who were on duty are in the cinema with the technicians. Greta Müller is dead, of course. I sent a rider for Frau Jaspers.”

  “That’s five. And the sixth?”

  “Fraulein Kaas, Sturmbannführer. It seems she left the hospital early today.”

  Schörner sighed impatiently. “And?”

  “I just found out she was driving Greta Müller’s car! In the confusion after finding the bodies in the sewer—”

  “In the confusion no one noticed,” Schörner finished. “In fact I did notice that. But because Fraulein Kaas is the sister of a Gauleiter’s wife, I did not consider her a likely candidate for treason. How foolish of me. Now that I think of it, she was quite a friend of the Müller girl.”

  Stern stole a glance at his watch: 7:43. He prayed McConnell would leave the cottage on schedule.

  Schörner tapped his right hand on his desk. “Do you know what I think, Hauptscharführer? I think our ersatz Standartenführer looks much too clean to have been hiding in the forest for the past few days. He looks like he’s been enjoying local hospitality. Eating well, by the look of him. Where does Fraulein Kaas live, Sturm?”

  “A old farmer’s cottage on the southern edge of Dornow.”

  Schörner nodded. “I know that cottage.” He stood up suddenly and pocketed Stern’s Walther. “I’m going to take a detachment of men and s
earch it.”

  “But Herr Doktor Brandt ordered the camp sealed.”

  Schörner’s jaw tightened. “I am in charge of security here, not Brandt. This man is no longer a threat. His comrades are. The Allies might well be planning to kidnap Brandt. I want you to place the Herr Doktor under guard.”

  Schörner took an extra clip of ammunition from his desk drawer and retrieved his Luger from Sergeant Sturm. “If there’s any trouble while I’m gone, Hauptscharführer, do whatever you must to prevent the Herr Doktor from falling into enemy hands.” He looked up pointedly. “Do you understand?”

  Sturm cleared his throat. “Does the Sturmbannführer mean that I should kill him?”

  “Precisely.”

  Sturm nodded soberly. Schörner’s sudden transformation from altar boy to ruthless commander had stunned him. “What about this one?” he asked, pointing at Stern.

  “I need to know everything he knows. Who sent him, how many men in his unit, what their plans are, everything. I believe you’re up to the task, Hauptscharführer?”

  Gunther Sturm knew he was up to the task, but after killing the Polish giant by mistake, he was a little hesitant to take on another important interrogation. “Exactly how far may I go, Sturmbannführer?”

  Schörner pulled on a greatcoat and marched to the door of the office. “Don’t kill him. Is that clear enough?”

  Sturm saluted. “Zu befehl, Sturmbannführer! Good hunting.”

  Schörner went out.

  Sturm lifted the phone and said, “Karl? Tell Glaub and Becker to guard the Herr Doktor until they hear otherwise from me.”

  He hung up and motioned to two SS privates standing at the back of the office. “Hold him in the chair,” he said.

  Stern tensed as four hands took him by the upper arms and squeezed tight enough to close off his circulation.

  Sergeant Sturm quickly searched the SD uniform, laughing at the cyanide capsule and pocketing the keys to Sabine’s Mercedes. Then he smiled and drew his SS dagger from the black sheath at his belt. It was identical to the one Stern had used to slash the throat of the sentry, the one he had in his ignorance given to Rachel Jansen. Sergeant Sturm casually cut the buttons off of the SD tunic, then sliced the undershirt beneath it down the middle.