by Therese Down
“Today, my esteemed colleagues,” went on Heydrich, “we have two men with us who will be instrumental in making the transition smooth from phase one to phase two of the Jewish relocation programme. May I introduce them to those who have not already made their acquaintance: Herr Ernst Schroeder, Chemist and Senior Director from Bayer, now on the IG Farben board, and Obersturmführer Karl Muller, Chief Disinfection Officer, now working for the Aktion T4 programme. Gentlemen, please stand, if you would. Firstly, Professor Schroeder.”
Walter watched with close interest how his father-in-law smiled broadly so that his immaculately groomed moustache arched upwards like a mouse stretching. He rose and graciously acknowledged first Heydrich then the rest of the table before sitting down again.
“And Obersturmführer Muller.”
Muller was altogether less adroit. He did not smile, merely managed a quick elongation of his lips, and his eyes remained serious, even troubled.
“You will not find either of these gentlemen’s presentations in your brief,” declared Heydrich. “At this point, I would like all but my own and Reichsführer Himmler’s secretaries to leave, if you please. I would also suggest that we have a break for coffee.” At this, Heydrich caught the eye of his secretary, and she nodded and smiled, got up, put her pad and pen upon her chair, and left the room with those secretaries asked to vacate it in order to organize refreshments. Goebbels yawned openly.
Ribbentrop did not return to the meeting after coffee – something about an important financial and fiscal meeting with a senior Reich member. No one enquired further.
Agnette was being rushed along tile and concrete corridors on a gurney pushed by an orderly who did his best to control the wayward wheels, but even so, the gurney glanced sharply off the tiled walls and careered across the corridor on a few occasions on the journey from the side room to the operating theatre. An unfit nurse in a starched uniform and cap did her best to keep up, clutching to her chest the clipboard that gripped Agnette’s notes. Behind her ran Hedda, tears streaming down her face, her whole visage contorted into a grimace of sheer panic. A surgeon held open the theatre doors, and once the gurney was through, he let them swing shut. When Hedda tried to follow she was restrained by the orderly and thrust firmly back into the corridor. The agonizing waiting must begin all over again. Agnette had started fitting, quite suddenly. The swelling in her brain would not subside. The fluid must be drained, or she would certainly die. More perilous surgery. More risk of infection. More scarring. Less and less of Agnette to hope for.
Hedda yanked her arm from the orderly’s grip and addressed him fiercely. “Get my husband!” she screamed. “Get my useless husband – now!”
“The problem initially was to do with concentration.” Ernst Schroeder was addressing the phase two meeting. “We experimented on small mammals – rats, mice, guinea pigs and suchlike – to begin with. At a CO concentration of 0.3 per cent, we found that the animals were not really showing severe signs of poisoning after an hour’s exposure. If we slowly increased the concentration of carbon monoxide – even by fractions of a per cent – then fitting, ataxia and evident narcosis and so on occurred, but not death – even after few hours. At levels above 0.4 per cent, death occurred.”
Ernst Schroeder was more animated than Walter had ever seen him. The usually taciturn, laconic little man was in his element. At social engagements, even family dinners, he was withdrawn and preoccupied to the point of rudeness. But give him a pointing stick and a flipchart with sums on it and his beady eyes lit behind his glasses, moustache moving frenetically.
“But Herr Doctor,” Himmler feigned fascination, “are these experiments applicable to humans? We are so much bigger.”
Dr Schroeder smiled and looked down quickly, as if trying to hide impatience. Walter was reminded of a schoolmaster trying to avoid a sarcastic retort to a class simpleton.
“Yes, yes, all that is easy to calculate: 0.8 – that is 8,000 parts CO per million – will certainly kill a person within thirty minutes after roughly two minutes’ exposure. Actually, toxicity is not as respectful of weight as you might suppose. English miners who took canaries into underground mines to detect even slight emissions of CO knew they had not long to get out once a bird began to sway on its perch. Carbon monoxide is a fascinating poison. The molecule binds to haemoglobin many, many times more strongly than oxygen does. We are not entirely sure why. Once metabolized at significant concentrations, CO will cause serious damage to the nervous system almost immediately.”
“And so where are we, Dr Schroeder, with our phase two planning?”
“Well, if one wanted to cause death to fifteen hundred people of an average body volume of seventy-five litres in a space of approximately 320 metres cubed, then the most cost-efficient way to ensure death within ten to fifteen minutes would be to adapt a diesel-fuelled vehicle driven by a gas-fuelled generator. With careful ventilation sufficient only to reduce explosive pressure in the room, we can assume a 35 per cent CO concentration in the fuel of such a single combustion chamber vehicle – up to five times more than in a petrol-fuelled engine and more than twenty-five times that of a normal diesel-fuelled vehicle. But there are problems.”
Goebbels was falling asleep. The only person paying more than polite interest was Wirth. He was practically on the edge of his chair with frustration, desperately wanting to interrupt the presentation, but still too cowed by the illustriousness of the gathering to do so.
“Problems, Herr Doctor?” Himmler alone encouraged Ernst to elaborate.
“Leaks in pipes, build up of solids in the generator and in feed pipes, which can cause breakdown, inefficient ventilation, so that oxygen levels are kept too high, or indeed, insufficient ventilation so that CO levels become dangerously concentrated and explosion is possible – and of course, engine malfunction is our present greatest obstacle to efficiency. Vehicle diesel engines were not designed to idle at full capacity for prolonged periods. Then we have a shortage of suitably fuelled and driven vehicles. Petroleum is efficient, but scarce and expensive. Most gas fuel generator-run vehicles are needed for our war effort. In short, the direct introduction of CO gas via specially constructed ducts – as recently used and supervised at Brandenburg – is far more efficient, but initially very costly, of course.”
Wirth could contain himself no longer. “I get the job done with converted Renault vans. We just build an air-tight chassis and feed a high CO gas/fuel mix into the compartment with a simple pipe. It works very well! I have also used a tractor, adapted to single chamber combustion and with a pipe feeding into a small room. That took longer, but also works. More get killed, though, so it is a question of time or numbers. I do both. It works.”
All eyes were now on the agitated and ruddy Wirth. Ernst Schroeder regarded him with an aloof contempt. Goebbels shifted in his chair so that he could get a good view of this hideous little man who was, nonetheless, more entertaining than the good Dr Schroeder.
“Do go on, Director Wirth,” encouraged Heydrich. “We could do with some hard statistics. I must report back to the Führer tomorrow on the findings of this meeting. Your presentation was most interesting, Herr Dr Schroeder. Can you have a report to me by tomorrow morning?”
“Foreign Minister Heydrich, sir –” Ernst Schroeder was clearly annoyed by this unseemly and most unscientific interruption from Wirth – “I was under the impression that you were interested in future, longer term, plans for phase two? My brief clearly states that phase two, beginning at the end of next year, will involve the removal of an initial three million persons in the shortest amount of time – and in the least costly manner. Current work under the expert auspices of Herr Wirth is still very experimental, and involves small numbers in comparison. Actually, were it up to me, General, I would suggest Zyklon B. Farben, building on work commenced many years ago at Bayer, have perfected a B Zyklon that will rival CO in both efficacy and cost. I am sure of it.”
Wirth was not about to cede the spotlight. He
began to stand up, looked to Heydrich then Himmler for permission, received the necessary nods, then took the floor.
“At Hartheim and also at Brandenburg I have set up what I think is a good system. I can dispose of around 250 an hour. This includes time taken for loading, removal, cleaning and so on. Sometimes they are not dead, but that is easily remedied. I know bullets are in short supply, but not many need to be finished off. It is still effective. In any case, garotting is also effective, and with three men on garotting duty, production is maximized. Sometimes the engine does break down, it’s true, and then it can set us back a bit, but average weekly production is now about 2,000 – at both institutions. Each van can take seventy-five to eighty at a time, and within ten minutes, boom –” Wirth clapped his hands in a decisive gesture – “they are dead.”
The government officials and officers exchanged comments or wrote things down.
“And are the… units… Are they about the same body mass as an average adult?” Heydrich was engaged now. He needed figures and projections for the Führer. So far, the scientist had outlined mainly what was not possible.
“Some are but, you understand, in my work often they are small. Many are just kids.”
More murmuring, nodding, note-taking.
“Why do you think, Director Wirth, that production is not much higher, given your stated capacity?”
“Like I said – with respect, Reichsofficers – sometimes we have little to work with. And sometimes, if I may, there are too many… scientists involved.”
At this there was open laughter. Ernst Schroeder looked furious.
“Really? And how does this slow things down?” Heydrich’s eyes were amused, but otherwise he kept a straight face.
“Well, sometimes there are four doctors and at least two chemists present. They fill in papers and ask questions – play with the gas taps and measure things. I am not allowed to get on with my job unless there are two doctors present at Brandenburg. It slows things.”
“Herr Wirth –” Ernst Schroeder could not contain himself – “without scientists, there would be no CO gas and you, my dear fellow, would have no adapted engines delivering the necessary CO concentrations without the efforts of my staff at IG Farben and the excellent engineering skills of colleagues like Officer Muller, here.”
At the reference to Muller, Walter turned with the others to look at Muller’s face. There was none of the anxiety to ingratiate himself or seek attention evident in the rivalry between Wirth and Schroeder. Muller, by contrast, seemed to shrink under scrutiny. In fact, he looked decidedly unwell.
“Of course, dear Dr Schroeder. We are indebted to your efforts, naturally. I am merely trying to establish possible production figures based on present data and so on. Director Wirth’s statistics are most interesting to me.” Heydrich continued, “Gentlemen, I think for now we can break for lunch. It has been a most useful meeting so far. Let us reconvene in, say, an hour and a half from now?”
Just then the boardroom doors opened and a junior SS officer entered the room, blushing at the illustriousness of the company, but also at the nature and urgency of his message. He handed Heydrich a note. Once Heydrich had read it, he turned to Walter.
“I think that you will forgive the public announcing of this message, Director Gunther, under the circumstances. I regret that your daughter has taken a turn for the worse at Rudolf Virchow hospital. Your urgent presence is required. Please, leave at once. We shall not expect you after lunch. My secretary will ensure you receive full minutes.”
Walter did not move. He considered the message and seemed to contemplate its significance. He was angry. He had spent most of the meeting contriving how best to ingratiate himself with Heydrich and Himmler over lunch. He was also eager to strike up conversation with Muller. Something about that man did not sit right. And also, there was something less than befitting the conduct of a Nazi high-ranking SS officer in the emotional leave-taking from such a meeting to attend to family business.
“Thank you for your concern, General Heydrich, but my daughter has been in a critical condition for many days now. I am sure another few hours will not make much difference. Her mother is with her.”
The men had all started to rise from their chairs, gather papers and make for the door. Their minds were on lunch and the fine wines that would no doubt accompany it. Most took little interest in Gunther’s news, but Muller sat quite still and contemplated Walter’s discomfiture, the growing redness of his complexion. He did not flinch when Walter looked up and caught his eye.
“As you wish, Director Gunther – Walter, I believe? As you wish,” conceded Heydrich, “but family is important. When you think about it, Walter, what else are we fighting for here? Take my advice – go to your daughter. Everyone will quite understand. We are all family men.”
Walter dared not contradict. He donned his cap, bowed as graciously as he could manage and shot one last challenging look at Muller, who met it with a quizzically arched brow and a slight movement of his head in askance. Muller had still not risen from his seat. Walter rose from his and left the room.
The tempers of both Hedda and Walter were high when their eyes met outside the theatre post-operative recovery room at the Rudolf Virchow hospital. Never kindly disposed to each other under normal circumstances these days, their mutual antipathy was acute at that moment.
“What has happened, Hedda?” Walter asked her this loudly without checking his pace while still a good twenty feet away from where his wife sat alone in the corridor. She rose and, holding his gaze, unperturbed by the annoyance in his countenance, answered equally loudly, “Your daughter is probably dying. That is what is happening.”
“Be specific.” Walter had reached her and stared into her eyes. His blood was not calmed by the defiance in them.
“Specifically? Her brain swelled again, she began to have fits. Specific enough?” Voicing aloud her comprehension to another for the first time seemed to bring home the seriousness of the words. Hedda was stopped by a sudden, choking sob. She gathered herself, wiped away spontaneous, hot tears and continued less angrily, “They rushed her to the operating theatre again. They said they needed to drain the fluid from her brain. She is in there.” Hedda nodded towards the door of the recovery room. “But they won’t let me in.”
Suddenly she gave in to the pain, the panic, the grief that had been damming against the walls of her heart. “I don’t know if she is alive or dead!” The words were half screamed, Hedda’s face contorted into an agonized grimace, and she stared challengingly into Walter’s eyes. “And where – where were you? I sent for you an hour ago!”
“Calm yourself!” Walter was resisting the urge to slap her full across the face. His eyes returned her hatred. “I came as soon as I got that message. In case you hadn’t noticed, there is a war outside. The city has been bombed and traffic is not flowing. It has taken me over forty minutes just to get here – and I was in a high priority meeting…”
She cut him off. The logistics of his journey and the possibility that his arrival was the earliest possible seemed to have no effect upon her temper. “Everything you do is more important than your family. But I’ll be damned if you are excused from the death of your daughter! You took no interest in her birth – nor in her life to date – but I will not watch her die alone too. You will have enough respect for our daughter to at least be present when she dies.”
Walter regarded Hedda’s face. The beauty had ceded to exhaustion and the ravages of anxiety. Her eyes were dulled by tears, and the dark circles below them were more remarkable than their colour. In spite of her rage her complexion was pale, and tears ran in falls across her cheekbones. A man who loved her would have been engulfed by pity. Walter considered her ugly.
“I shall find someone rational to talk to.” He pushed her out of his way and walking right up to the recovery room doors he knocked on them loudly in a manner that did not leave anything less than immediate acknowledgment as an option. After five seconds
no one had responded. Walter knocked again, even louder. This time, a nurse opened the door. She was frowning in annoyance and her expression barely softened when she beheld Walter in full SS uniform.
“My daughter is in there,” he stated. “I want to know how she is.”
“She is a fighter. The surgery went well. We are monitoring her post-operative recovery, but it is not easy to say how she is doing, given that your daughter was in a coma to start with.”
“Is she going to die?”
“It is too early to say. I –”
“Get me a doctor.”
The nurse was about to protest, but Walter’s fierce eyes and the menace in his voice made her think again. “Yes. Please wait one moment.”
Hedda had moved towards the door, far less interested in Walter now than in what the medical staff had to say. Within a minute, a doctor in a white coat emerged from the recovery room, smiled and extended a hand to Walter. Walter shook his hand peremptorily and waited.
“Officer Gunther, I am Dr Schlieffen. I performed surgery on your daughter earlier today. We successfully inserted a drain to siphon off fluid from the surface of the brain and she is comfortable now. I am still unable to establish reactive signs to stimuli which would indicate consciousness, but there certainly seems to be no deterioration in Agnette’s condition, compared with that which was the case before surgery. Now we just wait, I’m afraid. She is, at least, still breathing on her own.”
“So. My daughter will not die today?”
The doctor seemed a little taken aback at the directness of the question. “Er, it is possible – though unlikely, I would say – that she will die in the next twelve hours. And if she survives that long, then we are back to where we were before – monitoring her in her coma state, from which she may or may not emerge in due course. We have managed to stabilize her after the surgery. Her chances of survival are better than they were directly before the surgery. I am sorry I cannot be more specific at this point.” The doctor assumed a sympathetic demeanour. After all, the terseness of this formidable SS officer could be due to his rank, an assumed military persona. It was possible this was a father in agony trying to be courageous.
