by John Gardner
Herbie coughed. Some cheese; perhaps he would like some cheese. Yes, cheese would be good.
“You told them nothing?”
“I stuck with the part, the role. I knew nothing except the most important thing, and they wouldn’t believe that. Tomorrow their plot would fail and they would all lie dead, with Himmler gloating at his victory. I think I did honestly believe it by then. Living the cover. I told them that failed assassins were not qualified for other work.”
He described how the thunder came; and the lightning. How he heard the rain hitting the windows, and how, finally, the two men left him alone—“One great ache and throb on the bed. I felt like a bloody great carbuncle.”
“I get the coffee.” Herbie reflected that he seemed to be saying that all the time. But his job was to listen, not comment. He had to listen very hard. “You slept?” he asked.
George didn’t know if it was sleep, or a loss of consciousness following the torture. “It was a gentle shaking of my shoulder that brought me round. Then a voice calling my name, down the long, wrong end of a tunnel.”
“It was time?”
“No. It was Flachs.”
46
WEWELSBURG 1941
GEORGE BLINKED, NARROWING HIS eyes against the light as he woke. The thin face of Sturmbannführer Flachs came into focus. He was looking down at George and the door. He spoke quietly, almost a whisper:
“Thomas. Herr Thomas. There is one thing I must know. Please wake. We are alone. I must ask you…”
George croaked something that was neither pleasant nor anatomically possible.
Flachs insisted. “You have impressed me. Greatly, Herr Thomas. I swear before God this is not a trick. It is raining. Pouring with rain. I must speak with you.”
George turned his head towards the German, squinting at him painfully through swollen eyes.
“My mother,” he began. “My mother was an occultist. She knew much about the stars—about astrology. I know a little. I learned a little from her. This is a bad period for me. My horoscope. This is a time during which I have to take great care. I must know. Are you really what you say?”
George fumbled with the pain, which invaded even his mind. He told the Sturmbannführer, through broken teeth and with a tongue that felt too large for his mouth, that of course he was what he claimed. “Don’t be a fool. Would I have done what I have? Flachs, I have access to the keys—to the future.” Pain ballooned in his head now he was almost fully conscious. “Himmler will not die. His assassins will. It is written…” It was like a dream; Flachs seemed to be sliding away from him. He could hear the rain beating hard against the window, and then inside his head. Rain and darkness. Oblivion once more.
The next time they woke him was a much rougher business: a pair of men hauling him to his feet and pouring scalding coffee down his throat. He ached all over and had great difficulty moving. The two men were there to see that he could move—marching him slowly up and down the room, then faster until he could walk and move after a fashion. Then Wald was in the room with one of the sergeants. Of Flachs there was no sign: George recalled him in the night only as part of a dream. The two men who had been walking him left the room.
“It will soon be time.” Wald: unsmiling, correct, serious. “And you were correct, it is raining. Hard. The rain followed the thunder.” He looked at his watch. Less than one hour to go. He told George to sit on the bed.
“If you have a God,” croaked George, “I trust you’ve made your peace with him.”
Wald took no notice; instead, he went over it all again: painstakingly, slowly. Very soon he would be manning the machine gun on the battlements below the north tower. Already Flachs and Roubert were preparing their weapons. He added small technical details, saying the weapons would be mounted on the big solid tripods, to make certain the firepower was spread evenly over the courtyard. “It will be a wet business.”
George said yes, they would get wet—“All of you will be soaked—in your own blood.”
Wald smiled, said something to the sergeant, and left.
The sergeant pulled George to his feet and continued the therapy—walking him up and down, trying to ease the muscles. Any sense of time had long gone, though the facts and circumstances now began to eat their way into George’s mind. The charade in which he had shrouded himself was beginning to crack, so he tried to push reality away, centering his thoughts on Angelle.
Then Downay came in. He did not carry his ebony cane, but a heavier stick with a bulbous knobbed end to it, and was dressed in drab overalls with SS insignia on the lapels. At his hip, on the left side, hung a leather holster, unclasped to reveal the butt of a Luger pistol. The eyes were as dead as they had been on the previous evening, and when he spoke there was none of the old charm.
“Time, George. I’m sorry.” He did not sound it.
For a second, George felt panic and wanted to scream. He did try a lame attempt at handing off Michel, but the sergeant stepped up and put an arm lock on, sending a blaze of pain through him (“Like knives cutting all over my back”).
He went quietly after that—along deserted passages, down three flights of steps. Finally into a corridor where Heinrich Kuche stood meekly with the other sergeant. Both the NCOs had their Erma machine pistols in the crook of their arms, fingers on the triggers and with the business ends directed at George and Kuche. In front of them was the small door, pointed out on the previous night by Frühling. Outside the door lay the courtyard, the three-cornered killing ground.
Kuche tried to smile. There were bruises on his face, one eye completely closed; the lips were puffed and the nose seemed to have been squeezed into a monkey wrench and then twisted. One shoulder was higher than the other, as though out of joint.
“They have a wet morning for it,” he mumbled, and George said it didn’t matter about the weather. Then, raising his voice as high as it would go, “The poor buggers don’t know what’s going to hit them.”
Kuche gave him a look which said—if there’s any chance, whatever, we’ll have to take it.
They stood together, silent in the empty corridor, which was so narrow that people had to turn sideways in order to pass one another. Inevitably, George wondered if this was the way the Christian slaves felt, waiting to go out into the ring against the lions or gladiators—to certain death in the sun and sand. For himself and Kuche, it would only he rain and cobbles.
There was a small, glazed Judas squint in the narrow door which was to be their exit. Downay moved towards it, peering through. “The Reichsführer was reported to be on time.” He turned back. “The guard of honour is moving into position now, so your time of waiting will soon be over.” He nodded towards the wall behind them. “There are a couple of quite useless machine pistols. We shall put them into your hands before pushing you out. Don’t struggle or I shall see you destroyed here, on the spot, and to hell with Frühling and his plans.” The left hand hovered over his holster. George saw the two Ermas, minus magazines, leaning against the wall.
Looking towards the door, Downay stood to the right with one of the sergeants beside him; Kuche was between them, turned slightly to the right so that his shoulder—the good one—almost touched the sergeant’s chest. George stood next to him, facing the door. The other sergeant was on his left. They were all very rightly bunched together, and George could see that the sergeant on his left had been forced, by lack of space, to lower the muzzle of his machine pistol. He looked relaxed, as though trying to let his muscles go in order to relieve the tension.
George tried to nudge Kuche, signalling desperately with his eyes that if they were to do anything it had to be now—and fast. Psychologically it was the perfect moment. The only moment.
From the courtyard there came the sound of a military command, and Downay leaned forward, slightly off balance, to look through the Judas squint.
“The guard of honour is preparing to welcome…”
Kuche moved, with a speed and aggression almost unbeliev
able in a man so badly beaten. Downay did not even finish the sentence.
“The other one,” Kuche shouted at George, his good arm moving forward, and then back with great force, slamming the elbow low into the sergeant’s stomach. At the same time, Kuche seemed to turn and move his feet, kicking hard, so that the sergeant—already doubling over in agony—had his legs pushed from under him.
With his other foot, Kuche must have hooked Downay off balance. The last picture George had, as he moved into action, was of the sergeant and Downay both going down, while Kuche’s hand moved towards Downay’s holster.
The sergeant on George’s left reacted slowly, the muzzle of his Erma coming up a fraction late. George turned, moving in close, trapping the barrel of the weapon between arm and right side, still turning in the enclosed space so that any shots the man might loose off would be well clear of the others.
For the few seconds it took, George forgot the aching muscles and stiffness, bringing his knee up in the classic blow. It felt most unpleasant and the sergeant screamed with pain. George brought the knee down and the heel of his shoe onto the sergeant’s ankle, equally hard—then up again to the groin: the double whammie.
The sergeant’s face contorted with pain. George repeated the action. By the time his foot caught the man’s ankle for the second time, the sergeant was doubling forward, so that George’s knee rose and connected with his face. At that point the sergeant dropped his Erma machine pistol.
The shot came from behind George.
Kuche’s sergeant was dead. George could tell, because there was very little of the man’s face left. Kuche had fired with Downay’s Luger, then turned to cover the Frenchman who was still on the ground, half propped against the wall, cursing.
Almost casually, Kuche leaned forward and hit him very hard with the side of the pistol. Downay gave a small grunt and rolled onto his back.
Behind George, the sergeant groaned. Taking his cue from Kuche, George hit the man on the back of the neck with the wooden butt of the Erma.
There was silence, which seemed to go on for a long time. Kuche disentangled his dead sergeant from his Erma, checked it, and moved to the door. George checked the weapon he had taken. The magazine was in place, it was cocked and on safety. From outside came the sound of vehicles entering the courtyard.
They both leaned against the wall, one on either side of the door, breathing heavily. George asked Kuche if he knew the situation—if they had told him the plan. He nodded, panting.
George indicated the door. “Himmler’s two cars should be just ahead of us… the guard of honour behind them…. Up to the left, Wald is on the battlements….”
“MG… thirty-four…” gasped Kuche, nodding hard.
“And two more… Flachs directly to our right… then my bloody stepfather across the courtyard, slightly right, below the tower…. Frühling and Streichman at the north-tower doorway… but not for long….”
Rain splattered against the outside of the door, making them both start. Then, floating with the rain, the command in German for the guard of honour to present army.
Kuche’s breath was under control. “Keep in the angle of the doorway. I’ll try to get to the Reichsführer’s car. You cover me—have a go at the others. Keep their heads down. I’ll give what fire I can.” He chuckled, a two-syllable laugh. “Ironic, George. It’s up to us to save Himmler’s life in order to keep our own skins.”
Another laugh and he raised a foot against the door. George grasped the large ring of the latch. For a moment they hesitated. Then Kuche dropped his leg and whispered, “Hold on.”
Outside came the sound of rifles being slapped—mingling with the rain like the sound of wet sheets flapping on a line. George thought—that’s it; we’ve both lost our nerve and it’s going to end. The MG 34s will open up and it’ll be blood and rain.
But Kuche had paused only to reach down and drag a pair of spare magazines from inside the dead sergeant’s battle jacket. He tossed one to George, then nodded. George turned the ring on the door and Kuche hit it with his foot. The door banged open, rain spraying on their faces as though they were being drenched with garden hoses.
The blur of rain; an overpowering sense of being hemmed in within the triangle of walls; the pair of Mercedes cars pulled up behind one another; a glimpse of the guard in two ranks, stolid with rifles at the present.
George crouched, turning to his left and lifting the machine pistol towards the point where Wald should be, below the tower. As he did so, there was a slight movement in the doorway of the north tower—Frühling and Streichman, like little dummies in a weather house. He was also conscious of a uniformed figure hurriedly opening the rear door of the first Merc, his head down and collar up against the driving rain.
“Go.” Kuche shouted. “For Christ’s sake, go.”
George squeezed the trigger, letting off two quick bursts. Chips of stone flew from the battlement, and, as he looked, there was movement—Wald farther along the battlement than he had expected. He swivelled and fired another burst, peering through the rain to check accuracy.
Through the concentration, he was aware of Kuche’s footsteps as the German ran out towards the first car; and of his yelling—“Reichsführer, get down… down, they’re trying to kill you… down… Reichsführer…”
George fired another burst and began to turn, ready to rake the other two firing points. But Kuche was ahead of him. As he ran towards the car, he fired twice, from the hip: fast, turning and weaving as he went—short bursts in the general direction of where the other machine guns should be.
Then there were other shots—twice from George’s left. He saw Kuche spin like a top, wavering and then falling as he went. In the north-tower doorway, Frühling had a pistol in his hand and did not just stop at two shots; he moved his arm towards George.
George dropped the muzzle of the Erma and held on to the trigger. It did not matter anymore about Wald, Flachs, and his bastard stepfather, Roubert. It did not matter about Kuche, Angell, Maman, or even himself. He just squeezed the trigger and went on squeezing, in a way horrified at what was happening in the doorway—the two figures of Frühling and Streichman floating off their feet, enveloped in a spray of blood. He thought of Ping-Pong balls on a fairground shooting gallery, and the fact that killing by bullets was a messy business because blood does not seep or spurt: it jets.
Finally, the breech of the Erma clicked upon nothing. He unclipped the empty magazine, replaced it with the one Kuche had tossed to him; recocked the weapon, and went forward into the rain.
Kuche had nearly reached the car. Now he lay sprawled in the wet—the classic pose, with one hand reaching forward as though trying to claw the Reichsführer out of the car.
The guard of honour had not even reacted—it all happened so quickly. The officer by the car door was dropping to his knees, as if to crawl under the vehicle. George could just glimpse a figure within the car, immediately recognisable, his face registering bewilderment, the cap askew, but the metal-framed spectacles firmly in place.
George shouted towards him, just as Kuche had done. Yelling and running, knowing that he probably would never make it; feet slipping on the soaked cobbles, giving one burst with the Erma, to the right; then two to the left.
At that moment, Wald opened up with his MG 34, the bullets cleaving down, too low, first ripping at the cobbles, then, as he elevated the weapon, striking the bonnet of the Mercedes, tearing at the metal.
Still running, George pointed the Erma in the direction of Wald’s emplacement and started firing. All he could feel and hear was the rain, but he must have hit Wald then, for the MG 34 stopped, the final burst scything the bonnet in front of the windshield.
A last dive, and George flung himself through the car door, landing on top of the Reichsführer, still shouting that this was a plot to kill him. He was shouting in French and German alternately. It was like landing on a sack of dough.
Just as he got into the car, George called to the driver,
telling him to get the thing into the safety of the main gateway. Impossible, of course. The engine was wrecked and the driver had no chest left. Wald’s handiwork had ricocheted from the engine and through the dashboard. It was a miracle that Himmler himself was still alive.
Then the other pair of MG 34s opened up.
Herbie Kruger was engrossed. George talked fast, animated by the memories. Go on, Herbie urged him—like Kuche in the doorway.
More coffee. George swallowed, saying his throat was as dry as it had been on that morning at Wewelsburg.
After two or three gulps, he continued:
The other pair of MG thirty-fours opened fire.
47
WEWELSBURG 1941
IT TOOK A MOMENT for George to realise that none of the fire from the machine guns was coming down into the courtyard. The rip of the weapons was unmistakable behind the still-present hiss of rain, but the hail of expected bullets did not follow. There were other sounds now. Running feet, heavy boots on the cobbles, shouts and, close in George’s ear, a cold quiet voice telling him to get away. As he spoke, Himmler pushed at George, one neatly manicured hand grasping his shoulder. He raised his head and saw the face, a mixture of surprise and disgust. The cheeks were puffy and the grey-blue eyes behind the spectacles appeared to be full of loathing: as though George was some unpleasant piece of human dirt which had to be removed before it could contaminate.
It made George’s flesh creep, and he rolled away quickly. Outside the car, some of the guard of honour had closed in, using the vehicle as cover, in a protective capacity. They were looking up and away, past the second car, to where the machine-gun fire was constant.
