by Alex Gerlis
For the first time Strobel showed some emotion, leaning back in his chair and laughing raucously. The taller, younger man behind him joined in obediently, as did the other people in the room who she couldn’t see. When he stopped laughing he jumped out of his chair and stood directly in front of her, bending his short body so his face was just inches from hers. When he shouted, specks of spit sprayed over her face.
‘Do you think we’re fools? Franz Josef Mayer and Wolfgang Fischer were arrested months ago – and you know that. Fischer died in this very room. Mayer didn’t even make it this far. We know there were at least five others, including you. So what you’ll do now is tell me those other four names.’
She was shocked at how quickly the emotion swept over her. She could see now why they’d left her in the cell for so long: she wasn’t prepared for this. Her body was weak and her mind was going. Tears filled her eyes and her body shook violently. The names of the other four were forming on her lips and she had to bite her tongue to stop herself saying anything. She shook her head. Behind her she could hear a scraping noise.
‘We’d hoped the few days we allowed you to have on your own would prepare you for this, but evidently not. Normally at this point we’d attempt some of our gentler methods of persuasion in the hope you’d tell us the names but I can see that may be a waste of time. The names?’
She shook her head, trying to make sense of what he was talking about.
‘Franz Josef Mayer and Wolfgang Fischer,’ Frieda repeated. ‘I don’t know of anyone else. I was only a messenger, I told you. I did see a woman once or twice, but I was never told her name. She was older than me. She was tall with dark grey hair.’
‘Stand up.’
She stood, holding on to the back of the chair for support. When she turned around, she saw what appeared to be a large examination couch, with various straps and bars attached to it. Two men in uniform were undoing the straps. Two women came and stood on either side of her. Strobel nodded at the younger man then at her.
‘Get undressed.’
‘What?’
‘Unless you’re prepared to give me those four names now then get undressed.’
The younger man had dark blond hair that dropped over his bright blue eyes. He couldn’t have been more than 25 and he reminded her of her younger brother. He smiled as he removed his jacket and shirt, and unbuckled his belt.
‘I’ve no idea what names you want. I’ve told you, I was just a messenger. Please, you have to believe me!’
‘Go on Strasser, get on with it.’
***
After Strasser had finished with her for the second time they left her alone in the room, still strapped tight to the table. Her legs were splayed apart, attached to the bars jutting up from its sides. Her body was naked and bruised. Strangely, she no longer seemed to have the fever and the pain wasn’t as bad as it had been, but the humiliation was worse. The bright lights trained on her face felt as though they were burning her. Even when she shut her eyes the light was still unbearable.
They’d all gathered around the table, watching. Strobel had seemed quite excited throughout; breathing noisily, his face bright red with a thin smile and a glow of sweat on his forehead. As Strasser got dressed, Strobel stayed next to her, his hand stroking the inside of her thigh, his sweaty fingers gradually creeping higher.
‘Think about it. We’ll be back. Just four names.’
The fact she hadn’t given the names was of little consolation.
***
They’d returned the next day. ‘It’s Friday morning, Frieda,’ Strobel announced, his eyes sweeping up and down her naked body as he removed his raincoat and carefully folded it before handing it to someone behind him. ‘By the end of the day you’ll have told us everything we need to know, then I can enjoy the hunting I’ve planned for the weekend. We need the names and addresses of the other four people along with the name of the cell, so just get on with it. You know what we’re capable of now.’
Strobel was accompanied by Strasser, the one who’d raped her the previous day. They both watched as two other men in uniform came in and unstrapped her from the table. The relief she felt from the pain and discomfort was short-lived. No sooner had she collapsed onto the floor than Strobel took a running kick at her, his boot connecting with her throat. As she twisted on the floor, he stamped hard on her back. She must have blacked out after that because her next memory was of being hauled onto a wooden chair and strapped to it. She was coughing blood and unsure whether she could feel her legs.
After that, things got worse.
***
A shade before 9.30 on most weekday mornings a hush would quickly descend over a long, wood-panelled office on the third floor of the elegant building on Morzinplatz. The office was on the Franz-Josefs-Kai side of the building, the Danube Canal comfortably falling within its shadow and the mighty Danube itself a couple of hundred yards beyond that.
Most of the staff had been at work since well before 9.00 – though for most of them the first hour or so was a sociable time as much as anything else, given to drinking coffee, sharing gossip, dividing the minor spoils of war and indulging in various games of office politics.
That would stop with a warning telephone call from the ground-floor reception. A minute or so later they’d hear the swing doors at the end of the corridor crash open, by which time the office workers were now busy on their telephones or poring over reports.
This was the sight that would greet the stocky figure of Kriminaldirektor Karl Strobel as he marched into the office, doing his best to rise above the five foot four inches nature had cruelly dealt him and for which he’d never forgiven it. A large secretary wearing a severe black suit and a matching expression would follow in his wake, along with one or two officers eager for an early audience.
Acknowledging the ‘Herr Kriminaldirektors’ with only the curtest of nods, he’d stride between the rows of desks to his office, the door of which would be held open by another secretary, her head slightly bowed.
On this particular Monday morning he paused at one of the desks close to his office and spoke to the young man behind it, who was in the process of quickly rising to his feet.
‘Did you manage to get the information out of her, Kriminaloberassistent Strasser?’
‘Not yet sir.’
‘Is she still alive, Strasser?’
Strasser was now standing awkwardly in front of Strobel, aware his height would be a cause of some embarrassment. He edged further away.
‘Yes, Herr Kriminaldirektor.’
‘And yet she’s said nothing?’
The younger man shook his head.
‘You’d better come into my office, Strasser. Now!’
Strobel’s shouting caused the office to fall silent. The small group that had gathered expectantly behind him backed away, with the exception of the large secretary in the severe suit. Strasser followed Strobel into his office, with its magnificent desk taken from a Jewish-owned apartment in the 9th District and other fine pieces of furniture similarly acquired. Strobel stood by the window, staring over the canal towards Donaustrasse and the enormous flak towers of the Augarten in the distance.
‘So, you weren’t able to get her to say anything, Strasser?’
‘Nothing that makes any sense, Herr Kriminaldirektor. I’m afraid that since you last interrogated her on Friday she’s been largely incoherent. The medics gave her an injection on Saturday and that brought her to her senses for a while, but even then…’
‘I can’t emphasise enough how important it is we break this resistance cell, Strasser. They’ve been operating for at least three or four years, and we should never have allowed them to continue for so long. We’ve already dealt with Mayer and Fischer, and now we have Frieda Brauner, but we have to find out who the others are. How hard did you actually try, Strasser?’
‘I tried my best, Herr Kriminaldirektor, but you’ll appreciate the more persuasive I was, the less she responded. Her injuries real
ly are very severe. Doctor Rudolf says she probably has some paralysis from the injury to her spine, but the most serious injury is a collapsed windpipe. It’s a very…’
‘What’s this, Strasser? Are you a nurse all of a sudden? It can’t be difficult to get a woman like that to give us the information we need, surely? In fact…’
‘I know sir, but you yourself tried to do so on Thursday and Friday and…’
‘Don’t interrupt me, Strasser! You’re impudent as well as incompetent. Tell them to get her ready and I’ll go down and deal with her myself.’
***
Frieda Brauner was still on the floor below the basement, but she’d now been moved into what was, in effect, a hospital room. Doctor Rudolf, who tended her, was an elderly man, some years past the age when he’d expected to retire. He was now enjoying a status denied him during an undistinguished career blighted by drink and what he perceived as the scheming ambition of the Jewish doctors in the hospital where he worked. Now, as a Gestapo doctor, he’d become skilled at preventing people from dying inconveniently early.
‘Tell me about Frieda Brauner,’ said Strobel.
‘She’s very ill, Herr Kriminaldirektor,’ replied Rudolf.
‘So I gather. But you’ve kept her alive?’
‘After a fashion, yes,’ said Rudolf. ‘The most severe injury is to her windpipe. Tracheal injuries like hers are often fatal. It’s caused complications in her lungs and she’s having increasing difficulty breathing: the trauma has caused the tracheal cartridge to tear and she needs an operation. She was in a very bad state on Friday night when my medics first saw her and they called me in yesterday. I carried out a procedure on her, but it was only temporary. She’s a very sick woman. She needs to be transferred to hospital and even then her chances of survival are…’
‘That’s out of the question, Rudolf. I need her to give us information today. Can you get her in a state to do that?’
The elderly doctor looked at Strobel over the top of his half-moon shaped spectacles. ‘With the very greatest of respect, Herr Kriminaldirektor,’ he said. ‘If you needed her to be in a state to talk, that should have been a consideration last week. My understanding is that when she came here she was healthy. It’s unreasonable to expect the Gestapo medical service to perform miracles. Surely, if a prisoner is so important…’
Strobel stormed out of the doctor’s office while he was still talking and marched down the corridor to Frieda’s room, motioning for Strasser to join him. The prisoner was shackled to the bed, her skin almost as pale as the white sheet she lay on, and her breathing was uneven and noisy. Strobel knelt beside her and gripped her wrists.
‘Tell me the names, Frieda, just the names. Then I promise we’ll give you something to make you feel more comfortable.’
Frieda opened her eyes and took a moment or two to focus. She blinked rapidly and silently mouthed a word. Strobel leaned over her, his ear almost touching her mouth.
‘Water! She’s saying water, Strasser. Bring a glass. Get a move on.’
Strobel gently held the glass of water to her lips and raised her head from the pillow, allowing her to sip from it. When she’d finished, he propped her up against the headboard and stroked her hair.
‘Come on, Frieda, the names. Just give me the four names then you can rest.’
The woman’s eyes half-opened, still not properly focusing. Strobel signalled for Strasser to turn off the main light then wiped her brow with his handkerchief. She was trying to say something – her mouth was moving but no noise came out. He allowed her some more water and was then able to make out the very faintest of whispers.
‘She’s trying to say something, Strasser. Get your notebook out. Come on Frieda, the names.’
It was a while before she spoke: it was louder than a whisper, but in a voice that was weak and cracked.
‘“L”, Strasser, she’s saying the letter “L”. Write it down’. Is that right, Frieda?’
She nodded then glanced in the direction of the glass of water. Strobel allowed her another sip.
‘“E” – the letter “E”. Is that right? Good. You’re writing all this down Strasser? What’s next?’
This carried on for the best part of an hour: the woman whispering a letter to Strobel, nodding or shaking her head when the Gestapo man repeated it and, only when it was correct, being allowed a sip of water. There were frequent pauses during which Frieda’s head would sink back on the pillow and she appeared to have given up. But Strobel was surprisingly patient: he allowed her just enough time to recover before carefully raising her up and holding the glass to her lips.
‘Carry on Frieda, carry on please…’
When she completed the fourth name, Strobel grabbed the book from Strasser and studied it for a minute or so.
‘Are these the names Frieda? Are you sure?’
She nodded her head.
‘They don’t make sense. Here, have some more water.’
Strobel’s hand was shaking and instead of allowing her to sip from the glass he spilled most of down her neck.
‘Come on, tell me what it means! You’re making fools of us!’ His manner was no longer gentle and persuasive. His voice was angry and loud. She stared beyond him, saying nothing. Strobel grabbed her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. Still she said nothing, closing her eyes. With the back of his hand he slapped her face hard, causing her to open her eyes wide, a look of panic set on her face.
‘Tell me what this all means – and…’
She made a sound. He leaned closer. She repeated the word.
‘What’s she saying, Strasser? Say it again Frieda.’
She spoke again.
‘I think she’d saying “Hades”, sir,’ said Strasser. ‘That’s what it sounds like.’
She repeated the word: this time it was clear: “Hades”. It was the first word she’d spoken above a whisper.
‘What’s Hades?’
‘I believe it’s another word for hell, sir.’
Strobel stood up, looking furious.
‘Hell? You’re telling me to go to hell, you bitch?’
As he spoke, there was a cackling sound from the bed and Doctor Rudolf, who’d been hovering nervously in the doorway, moved swiftly to the bedside, just in time for Frieda to rise before dropping back, dead before her head hit the pillow.
***
By the time they arrived back in his office Strobel was being more conciliatory towards young Strasser. He realised, though he’d never admit it, that if it weren’t for his violence on the Friday they may now have had the proper names from Frieda. Now she was dead. Strobel took Strasser’s notebook and held it at different angles, as if that could throw some meaning on the four names she’d given.
‘They’re not German names, are they sir?’
‘Obviously not, Strasser. I’d worked that out.’
‘They could be code names, sir. If only we’d had a bit more time with her, I reckon she’d have told us everything!’
‘It was a miracle she told us anything Strasser. It’s a good job I haven’t lost my touch – this department simply wouldn’t function without me. I’ve no idea what you were up to over the weekend. We lost two valuable days.’
Strasser had now copied the four names out onto a separate sheet of paper, spacing the letters out carefully.
‘They look as if they could be Latin or Greek, Herr Kriminaldirektor.’
‘Possibly, possibly… You’ll need to go and check it out somewhere. Find an expert… there must be someone in Vienna. This is meant to be a cultured city after all.’
‘How about the university, sir? There must be a classics department there.’
‘Well let’s hope it’s not one of those departments where all the staff were Jews and communists. You’d better get a move on.’
***
Karl Strobel paced around his office, making a conscious attempt to calm himself down. Normally a weekend’s hunting would have had that effect, but he knew
he’d allowed his temper to get the better of him on the Friday. If he’d not attacked the woman so viciously she’d probably have confessed all.
Through the frosted glass in his office door he could just about make out movement beyond it, the blurred dark shapes of the 70 staff who worked for him. He was proud of what he’d achieved: childhood poverty in Carinthia; his father killed in the Great War; then a series of dead-end jobs. He was drifting through life until he’d joined the Nazi Party when it started in Austria in 1924 and from that moment on his life began to have some meaning. He’d started to command respect; his brute strength and cunning more than compensated for his lack of intellect and wealth. And so he’d climbed through the ranks of the Nazi Party. After the failed putsch of 1934 he’d spent a few months in prison, which did his reputation no harm. He came out to find he was one of nearly half a million jobless in Austria, but he’d continued to rise through the ranks of the Nazi Party and when the Germans marched into Austria in March 1938, Strobel joined the Vienna Gestapo. By the time the war started he headed section lVA, which was responsible for finding communists, liberals and saboteurs who somehow still existed in Vienna four years after the Nazis had been so joyfully welcomed into the city.
But recently life had become more difficult for Strobel. He was under pressure. What was it Huber had said to him the other week? ‘Your job should be an easy one, Strobel: finding communists and resistance cells in Vienna should be like spotting the full moon. It’s not as if you’re in Paris or Prague. Maybe a spell in the east will show you what the real world’s like. Find that cell or else you’d better start packing some warm clothing.’
All well and good for Franz Huber to say that: the Bavarian might well be in charge of the Gestapo here in Vienna but it wasn’t as if he did much in the way of real work himself. Strobel began to feel quite sick again. He was no coward, he was brave and tough – he was a hunter after all – but he’d heard such terrible things about the east. Apart from anything else, his talents would be wasted there. They were needed here in Vienna. He was interrupted by a knock at the door: tentative at first then louder as it was repeated. It was Strasser, who was looking very pleased with himself.
