by Joe Poyer
Heydrich had leaned forward to listen. ‘You find it necessary to build three separate rockets? I thought the guiding principle in engineering was to make things as simple as possible. It would seem that the use of three rockets would increase the chance of failure thrice over.’
‘Actually, nine times, Herr Heydrich. But, as Franz said, we have not the fuels to build a rocket that can reach the moon in a single stage. In fact, even with three stages it will barely be sufficient. We must cut everything to the bone to save weight. Our navigational equipment, for instance, will be of the most primitive - a simple sextant. The smallest possible radio-direction-finding set will be used. And the pilot must be able to fix anything that goes wrong, as we cannot afford the mass to carry a spare set.’
‘Is it a matter of more money?’ Heydrich was smiling as he asked the question, but he was watching the young scientist closely.
‘No. Rather a matter of technology. Our fuel experts have been able to find only one or two fuel combinations that are more efficient than the alcohol and liquid oxygen mixture we now use, and they have drawbacks that negate their value.’
‘I am not certain I understand what you mean.’
‘For instance’ - Bethwig broke in - ‘the alcohol and liquid oxygen mixture we currently use approaches optimum in terms of energy obtainable from chemical fuels. The power, if you will, of a rocket fuel is measured in terms of specific thrust per second, which is simply the push per unit of fuel consumed. Liquid oxygen and alcohol provide a specific thrust of one hundred and eight kilograms per second. We could obtain a greater specific thrust with a combination of, say, liquid oxygen and hydrazine which provides one hundred and seventeen, or even liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen which provides the greatest specific impulse of all chemical fuels, one hundred and fifty-two kilograms per second. But we do not have the facilities to manufacture or handle liquid hydrogen. Hydrazine would be ideal, but Germany does not produce it in sufficient quantities, and the resulting performance increase would not justify the added cost of developing a manufacturing capability. Above all, an engineer must be practical.’
Heydrich replied, with a trace of annoyance, ‘Yes, yes, I understand.’ He got up to pace the room as von Braun took up the briefing again, but it seemed to Bethwig that his patience was nearly exhausted. The more detailed the explanations became, the more restlessness the reichsprotektor displayed.
‘... will stand fifty-one point eight metres tall. At the base the first stage will measure nineteen point eight metres. The entire rocket will weigh 4,082,331 kilograms, nearly as much as a naval cruiser. We have designed a cluster of twenty-one rocket motors to provide a combined thrust of 3,401,942 kilograms. The motor will consume 3,985,230 kilograms of fuel in less than one hundred and twenty seconds. The second stage will have four motors providing a total thrust of 635,028 kilograms. The third stage will have a single motor providing 158,757 kilograms of thrust and will carry the crew and equipment. It will ...’
‘Please, spare me a recital of further facts and figures.’ Heydrich heaved a sigh, then turned and smiled. ‘I really do believe you gentlemen know what you are doing.’
He went to the window, and Bethwig realised the man was posing for them. He was dressed in what the English would describe as ‘country clothes’. Tweeds made in Scotland and probably tailored on Bond Street or wherever that sort of thing was done. Heydrich was, of course, the party’s prototype Nordic - tall, blond, blue-eyed, ruggedly masculine; and standing at the window gazing into the distance as if concerned with all manner of problems affecting the direction of the human race, he certainly looked the part.
‘Gentlemen, it is too beautiful a day to remain cooped up inside. You do both ride, of course?’ Not waiting for a reply, he threw open the windows and stepped on to the terrace, motioning them to follow. ‘I am certain that you will find the course challenging. I laid it out myself.’
Von Braun gave Bethwig a startled look and followed him out. He did of course ride, but it was clear from the set of his shoulders that he would rather have spent the day cooped up in the library discussing the A-10 project, willing audience or not. Bethwig followed both men on to the terrace where the horses waited, thankful that Heydrich had suggested the diversion. It had just occurred to him that he was intensely weary of Peenemunde and the host of new problems that had grown out of Hitler’s refusal to grant overall priority to either the Luftwaffe or the army for the development of advanced weaponry. In that single respect Heydrich had been a godsend.
‘Come, gentlemen. You will enjoy fresh air not filled with the exhaust of rocket engines.’ He laughed at his own joke, swung into the saddle, and, without waiting, urged his mount to a canter. Bethwig waited until von Braun, grumbling and muttering to himself, was safely mounted before following.
Heydrich set a stiff pace, and although it had been four years since he had last sat on a horse, Bethwig found himself falling easily into old patterns. The air was crisp and the sun pleasantly warm. Sunlight glinted on massive chestnuts and oaks in the parklike forest, and not until he noticed the huge trunks did he realise that he was in a medieval hunting park that had belonged to Bohemian kings.
The horses clattered over a small wooden bridge arching a deep brook. Bethwig, who had fallen behind, pulled up a moment to examine the lovely stream, drawn by the mysterious way it disappeared into a stand of willow. He was about to investigate further when his attention was caught by a flash of sunlight on metal in the shadows. Bethwig turned his horse in that direction, curious as to who else might be riding in a park belonging to the protector of Czechoslovakia, and saw a horseman watching. The man stared at him for a moment, then turned and disappeared into the trees. Franz had a momentary glimpse of a steel helmet and carbine. Of course, bodyguards. Suddenly, the day was no longer quite so pleasant. The war had intruded and with it the realisation that they were the guests of a man who must, by all odds, be a major target of any resistance movement in Czechoslovakia. Slowly now he pulled the horse around and followed along the trail after von Braun and Heydrich.
Franz Bethwig mentioned the experience at dinner that night. He and von Braun had been seated to the left and right of Heydrich, and their table formed an elevated T to that occupied by the majority of guests. Beneath the huge vaulted arch of a ceiling the vast dining-hall was lit by thousands of candles. Heraldic banners and burnished armour decorated the stone walls, causing Bethwig to feel as if he had stepped into the thirteenth century.
Heydrich repeated Bethwig’s comment to the dining-hall at large, and the guests laughed dutifully. Heydrich finished his wine and motioned for the silver goblet to be refilled. ‘Your question is perfectly valid of course. When you reach a position such as mine, you are aware very soon that there is only one defence against an assassin.’ He waited, and Bethwig asked the question as expected.
‘Keep the people sufficiently happy and pleased with you, and they will not fall prey to the blandishments of malcontents. By making this my rule, I have seen to it that the Czechoslovakian people will support a National Socialist government.’ Winking at Bethwig, he raised his voice so that the majority of diners could hear.
‘Why, there is every likelihood that as soon as the war is finished, Czechoslovakia will be invited to join the Reich under the same status as Austria, that is, as an integral part of the nation.’
Bethwig could see that the impromptu speech was having the desired effect. Many of the guests he had been introduced to before dinner were Czechs. From their smiles and whispered asides he could tell that Heydrich had made his point.
‘As you can see,’ Heydrich went on, ‘the Czechs already enjoy many of the fruits of our victory. There is certainly no reason why they should not continue to do so.’ He paused, then bent towards Bethwig as if to confine his remarks, but spoke loudly. ‘Unless of course I were to be replaced and my successor to treat Czechoslovakia as a conquered country.’
A dead silence fell over the hall. Faces turned in their
direction as if attached to the same wire. Nationality was obvious by expression. The Czechs were frightened, the Germans interested. Everyone had heard the stories emanating from Poland and occupied Russia.
Heydrich beamed at the upturned faces, and Bethwig knew that he was enjoying himself immensely, and he realised then what it was to have the power of life and death. He shivered, even though the dining-hall was overwarm from candles and close-packed bodies.
It was long after midnight before Bethwig broke free of the favoured few swirling about Heydrich and edged out of the dining-hall. Von Braun was still in there somewhere, smiling and laughing and having the time of his life. Wernher liked people and functioned well in such situations even though he preferred to avoid them whenever possible. The halls were quiet, and Bethwig found his way to the main staircase without assistance. SS guards stood like black statues guarding the corridors. Heydrich was obviously a great deal more concerned about assassination than he pretended to be.
Low-wattage electric lamps burned where candles had once blazed, the only sign so far of wartime economies. The walls of the echoing hallways were panelled in rare woods and adorned with magnificent paintings, most of which, Bethwig was certain, had not been hung in the castle before 1939. Heydrich certainly spared himself nothing.
He found his room again with some difficulty, and the door was unlocked. ‘No need to lock doors here, Herr Professor. Who would steal in the house of Reinhard Heydrich?’ the footman had observed when he enquired about a key. Who indeed?
It was a three-room suite: sitting, bed, and bath, all in differing shades of blue that were not quite contrasting, not quite matching. The effect was striking but vaguely uncomfortable. An exquisite Botticelli reposed on the eighteenth-century credenza that had been rebuilt inside to house a record player. Over the Empire sofa hung a magnificent Renoir, somewhat out of place but acceptable for itself. He had studied the painting that morning but had not been able to decide if it was real or a clever fake. Bethwig crossed the Persian carpet to the bedroom, switching on the light as he entered. Weary of the day’s equal servings of sense and nonsense, he shed dinner jacket and shoes and started for the bath. A muffled whimper stopped him dead, and he turned to see the bedclothes thrown aside to reveal a pale face crowned by a tousled mass of long reddish hair. The apparition was so startling that he halted in midstep.
‘What the devil...’ he began, wondering if he had not got into the wrong room. His shock turned to embarrassment as a woman sat up, unmindful of the eiderdown slithering away. Bethwig’s protest stuttered into incoherence, and the girl laughed, a quicksilver sound that filled the room. She turned to look at him, drawing her legs under so that she was kneeling on the white satin sheets. She brushed the blanket aside with a lithe gesture, and Bethwig was struck dumb by her unexpected beauty.
‘You are Herr Professor Franz Bethwig, are you not?’ she asked with a smile that made him catch his breath. ‘They told me you were quite handsome and very athletic. I can see that they were correct.’ She shifted her legs, so that she was now sitting, and patted the bed beside her. ‘Come, here beside me. I can promise you I will bite.’ This last pronounced with laughing authority.
Desperate for something to say, Bethwig cleared his throat. ‘What is your name, please?’
‘Oh my, so formal.’ She pouted a moment, then gave him that heart-stopping smile once more. ‘Inge. Do you like it?’
Even though Bethwig was experienced enough to know that her entire manner was a well-practised art, he nevertheless felt drawn to the girl and moved to sit beside her. His hands were shaking, and he clenched his fists to hide his nervousness. Inge touched a fingertip to his cheek and smiled again.
‘Do you like Inge?’ She postured for him, thoroughly enjoying herself. Her voice was pitched quite high, and as he turned to her the soft light shone into eyes that were little more than dark pupils. ‘Men always tell Inge she is beautiful. They always want me to take off my clothes.’ She laughed again. Bethwig closed his eyes a moment, in pain as he realised that she was mentally retarded.
‘Well,’ she demanded.
‘Yes, very much so,’ he told her softly. ‘You are quite beautiful, Inge.’
The girl preened like a cat, arching her back so that her breasts shivered seductively. In spite of himself, Bethwig touched a gentle curve, tracing it upward towards the nipple.
‘I have never before made love to a professor,’ she whispered. ‘Have you ever had a girl like me? No? Well, I can teach you and you can teach me. Would that be all right? Isn’t that what professors do?’ Her hands were busy unbuttoning his shirt. He made a half-hearted effort to brush them away, but she persevered with a giggle. A musky odour compounded of sleep and French perfume enveloped them, and he drew a shaky breath. In spite of his inclination not to touch this beautiful but helpless woman, his defences were crumbling. As if able to sense his misgivings, Inge sat back and regarded him with the perceptive understanding of a child.
‘Please, Franz, I am a woman. Please do not deny me that.’ She stared anxiously, willing him to understand. The combination of her appeal, her nearness, and her obvious need for him shattered his good intentions.
‘I can help you if you let me. Will you?’
There was nothing else he could do, and he nodded.
They lay quietly side by side, and Bethwig wondered if he would ever again experience anything as emotionally trying yet satisfying. That the girl was an accomplished sexual artist, there was no doubt. Strange as it seemed, it did not trouble him when he thought of how she had learned. There was a sense of giving, of sharing pleasure, that he had always thought represented the state of love, and to find it in an SS prostitute had taken him completely by surprise. Bethwig wondered what would eventually happen to the girl and discovered that he very much cared. He propped himself up and caressed her shoulder until she murmured sleepily, snuggled into his body, and, with her fingernail, began to trace patterns that made him catch his breath. His erection came swiftly, and Inge was astride him before he could protest. She put her hands on his shoulders and rocked and rocked until his thrusts matched hers in desperate need, and, inconceivably, their lovemaking was better the second time, seeming to last for ever until both exploded into exhaustion.
Afterwards, when the girl had fallen asleep, Bethwig got out of the bed and covered her with the eiderdown. He stood a moment, studying her face, then found his cigarettes, filled a large tumbler with brandy, and went through to the bath. Lighting a cigarette, he eased himself into the hot water. Trying to concentrate on Inge, he discovered he was too emotionally exhausted. He took a deep pull at the brandy and then a second, half emptying the glass.
Franz Bethwig was certainly not a virgin; he was far too attractive and personable for that. Inexperienced perhaps; but even so, there had been affairs, and once he had nearly married. He supposed the sum total of those experiences must have taught him something about lust, if not about love. And then there was the contribution of the party to the health and welfare of the German people, or so the joke ran: the promotion of free love - as long as you were a party member. A perk, one might say.
But never had he been subjected to an emotional assault like this evening’s. No one had ever done those things to him nor, literally, begged him to do them to her. And it had all been so free, so natural: Bethwig shook his head. He did not want this; she was a cripple, a mental cripple. He could not afford such an affair. And she belonged to the SS. How in the name of God could he cope with that?
The bathwater had cooled, and the brandy was gone. He got out, dried himself slowly, and returned to the bedroom. The night was warm, and in her sleep Inge had thrown off the eiderdown. A pale moon had risen and was shining fitfully through the curtains, touching her body here and there with silver. Bethwig drew the curtains open and returned to the bed, entranced with the vision. For a moment he had an inkling of the power that drove men to kill for a woman’s body.
Thinking of the soft pres
ence beside him and the brief gleam of insanity he had glimpsed twice now in Heydrich’s eyes, Bethwig slept little that night.
Norway-England April 1942
Lieutenant Jan Memling crouched behind the pilings of a warehouse, spooning tasteless rations from a tin. A frigid wind flung spatters of rain, and his sergeant cursed. The fjord fled into the fog less than half a mile from where they were sheltering. Beyond that, he thought, anything could be happening. Rumour had it that a German destroyer was on its way from Bergen, but rumours weren’t worth a damn. He dug the last of the pasty mess from the can, licked the spoon, and slipped it into the light pack lying beside him. Memling then turned the tin this way and that, trying to read the scratched label in the failing light. It was impossible to know what he had eaten from its taste alone.
They had landed shortly before noon, in full daylight. A diversion, they had been told. ‘Need someone to distract Jerry’s attention while we drop a load of paratroops up on the plateau. Very important job, hush-hush. Wizards tell us there’s a big hydroelectric plant at Rjukan the Nazi needs.’
Their target village was defended by a small army detachment that had grown a bit soft with garrison duty, or so they had been informed. No one, it turned out, had so informed the Germans.
His section had been targeted on the wireless facility, which intelligence had pinpointed in the local school, a single-storey redbrick affair that looked very much like an English village school. It stood on the highest point in town, barring the mountains rising almost vertically from the fjord, and so was a logical choice. Apparently the Germans thought so as well, and no one had checked the information with MILORG, the Norwegian resistance organisation.
Memling had realised there was no radio in the building as soon as the door was kicked in. An elderly teacher and fifteen or so students had stared at them in wide-eyed fright. Ten vital minutes had been wasted before the radio was located in the town hall and destroyed, by which time every German garrison in central Norway had been notified.
