by Ib Melchior
The man sat down at the table. Importantly he placed some papers before him. Woody thought he recognized his own among them. He felt Ilse grow rigid beside him.
The stranger turned toward him and fixed him with an icy stare. He pointed to a spot in front of the table. “Antreten!” he barked.
Woody bristled. He quickly caught himself. He was in their ballpark. He’d better play their game. He walked to the indicated spot and snapped to attention. “Zu Befehl!” he sang out. “At your orders!”
Strelitz appraised him overtly. Who was this young man? he wondered coldly. From the answers to his inquiries about him and the girl with him he had already made up his mind that his suspicions about them were fully justified. Information had come back from the Anlaufstellen at Eisenach, Coburg, Neustadt, and Nördlingen. For some reason he had been informed that prior to the stop at the Harz nothing was available. It had not been needed.
He let his arctic eyes bore into the young man who stood stiffly before him.
“I am SS Sturmbannführer Strelitz,” he rasped. “I am here to ask you some questions. I am empowered to do so.” He held a piece of paper out toward Woody. “Read this.”
Woody took the paper. He prayed his hands would not shake. He read. The document was an authorization giving Sturmbannführer Oskar Strelitz almost unlimited powers.
“You are familiar with the Führer’s signature, no doubt,” Strelitz said. It was a statement rather than a question.
Woody looked at the scrawl at the bottom of the page. He had no idea what Hitler’s signature looked like. He stared at it.
If that was it, he thought, it sure fit. It was as twisted as the man himself.
“Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer,” he said, trying to make his voice sound respectful. “Thank you, Herr Sturmbannführer.”
For a moment Strelitz scowled at him in silence. Woody felt creeping over him the natural, numbing uneasiness common to everyone being questioned by someone in authority. He fought against it. He knew how damaging a guilty appearance could be in an interrogation. Interrogation? If this was to be an interrogation, he was on the wrong side of the table, dammit!
“Your name?” Strelitz suddenly snapped. “Your real name?”
Woody drew himself up. “Bauhacker, Hans,” he answered smartly. “Obergefreiter. 796822.”
His interrogator’s cold eyes held him captive. “Look behind you,” he said evenly.
Woody turned to look. At the door stood Heinz Ludwig—a Luger pistol in his hand, pointed straight at Woody.
“The next lie you tell . . .” Strelitz’s voice whipped through the room like an icy gust of wind. “The next lie—will be your last!”
22
WOODY STRUGGLED TO STAY CALM. Despite his efforts, he felt his pulse quicken. His mouth was suddenly dry and his palms felt clammy. He was aware of a tiny muscle at the corner of one eye beginning to twitch. He knew he was exhibiting all the familiar telltale signs of a subject who has something to hide. He could not help it. And he was certain the minute, involuntary signals were not lost on his interrogator. The man was obviously a professional. Good, he thought. His actions would be predictable—up to a point. Images of the countless interrogations he had conducted himself flashed across his mind. It struck him that this time he had to suppress the little giveaway signs, not detect them. He set his mind in the unwonted role. He knew what he had to do. Give his answers as quickly as he could. Stick as close to the truth as possible. That way he would sound most convincing and there would be less of a chance to get caught in contradictions; less chance to be trapped in Sir Walter Scott’s tangled web of deception. He met the steady gaze of SS Sturmbannführer Strelitz. He was ready.
Strelitz lazily surveyed the young man standing ramrod straight before him. He was already beginning to display the expected signs of nervousness. Good. But it was not unusual. He would take his time. Give the young man’s own mind as much of a chance as possible to reach a full measure of anxiety. Time did that admirably to a guilty mind. Even to a mind free of guilt—if such existed.
Strelitz reviewed for himself the information Ludwig had obtained for him through the Verteilungsstab.
His subject had indeed made remarkable speed since leaving the Anlaufstelle in Eisenach, where he had teamed up with the girl. The agent in Coburg had been bitterly resentful over the way the traveler, who went by the name Bauhacker, had thrown his weight around. Of course, he mused, that by itself meant nothing. He knew from other information received from the Eisenach Anlaufstelle that the man in front of him supposedly was an SS officer. Acting with unquestioned authority would be natural to him. The agent at the Coburg stop had all but recommended the subject be quartered and drawn. Strelitz smiled cynically to himself. That was only wounded pride. He had seen plenty of that before. It was the obvious anxiety by the subject to hurry along the escape route, displayed at every stop, that perturbed him. Why? Through a skillful combination of cajoling and veiled threats, the man had effectively pressured the Anlaufstelle agents into sending him and his girl on, ahead of regular scheduling.
He frowned. The man’s behavior bore investigating. Especially since intentionally or not, his efforts would soon bring him into striking distance of Eva Braun Hitler.
Deliberately he set his face in the cold, hard mask of a ruthless inquisitor. He would soon learn if the young fellow and his girl were bona fide Achse travelers.
Or not.
He would hold off making a decision. Certainly if he had any doubts, it would be better to eliminate one honest SS officer, than to allow the existence of even the possibility of a threat to Eva Braun Hitler.
And her unborn child.
“Your name?” The words rang out like two rapid fire shots and cracked through the room. Woody started. Dammit! It had been too sudden. “Once again, I ask you,” Strelitz said ponderously. “What is your name?”
Woody more felt than heard the thin rustle behind him, as Ludwig steadied the gun aimed at his back. He clicked his heels. “Diehl, Fritz,” he snapped. “Hauptsturnführer. SS-Führer-Ausweiss-Nummer 250.252. Partei-Mitglieds-Nummer 3.387.514.” Let the bastard check, he thought defiantly. It was the real Diehl’s ID numbers. It buoyed him to be able to rattle them off. And, dammit! he needed all the buoying he could get.
For a long moment Strelitz studied Woody, his eyes hooded. In doubt? Did he know it was the second lie? Woody’s self-satisfaction quickly caved in. He could feel the flesh on his back crawl. Any split second a bullet could slam into him. Would he know? Or would he simply cease to exist? He willed himself to meet his interrogator’s steady gaze.
Strelitz contemplated him. Stimmt, he thought. Correct. The agent at the Eisenach Anlaufstelle had been in possession of the man’s actual ID cards.
“What were your duties, Haupsturmführer Diehl?” he asked.
“Zu Befehl, Herr Sturmbannführer, I was in charge of guards,” Woody answered. “At Flossenburg.”
He was aware of the strangled gasp coming from Ilse. Dammit all to hell! He had assured her he was not like her mother. Now he, himself, with his own words, was forced to destroy the trust, the feeling of intimacy that had sprung up between them. He had not wanted her to hear. Not this. But he had no choice. Not if he wanted to stay alive. Bleakly, he knew she would have to hear more. Much, much more. He ached inside.
“Ah, yes,” Strelitz said. “I remember the camp, Diehl. I visited there occasionally.” He looked sharply at Woody. “I never saw you.”
Woody was about to make an apology or an explanation. He caught himself. They would have been lame at best. What was there to say? He would not be drawn into the trap of futile explanations. He knew what it could lead to. Betraying facts that might be damaging. He had used the ploy himself. Often. He stood silent. So what, if they had not run into each other? It was a big camp. Sprawled all over the damned place. He suddenly felt chilled. If Strelitz really knew the camp, he could easily trip him up. He, himself, had been there only once. Desperately he s
earched his mind for anything he could remember from his visit to the camp. Back in April. After the Death March. Anything he remembered seeing. Any facts he had learned. Any bits of knowledge from his interrogation of the real Fritz Diehl.
His mind was blank. It did not worry him. He knew that a specific question would trigger his recall, now that he had placed himself on the alert. He did not try to force it. He kept his mind clear and receptive.
“An excellent camp,” he heard Strelitz comment. “Well kept.” The interrogator leaned back in his chair, relaxing, as if wanting to put his subject at ease.
Woody knew at once what the man was doing. It was an old trick. Make the subject feel the worst is over, then catch him with a trick question—and pounce. He steeled himself.
“I was especially impressed with the beautiful little garden just inside the main gate,” Strelitz went one. He frowned lightly. “To the right, I believe. At a little white garden house.”
Woody’s thoughts raced to the memory of the main gate to Flossenburg. “Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer,” he said. “I remember it well.” He saw a hard glint flit through the German’s eyes. “But, with the Herr Sturmbannführer’s permission,” he continued, “the garden was outside the gate. Not inside.”
Strelitz smiled thinly. “Yes. Yes, of course.” So, the young man did know the camp. How well?
“You were at the camp to the end, Diehl?” he asked. “Up to the evacuation?”
“I was, Herr Sturmbannführer.”
“Does the date, April 9, mean anything to you?”
April 9. Woody was blank. He felt himself tense. Easy. Don’t panic. April 9? What the hell had happened on April 9? He had no idea.
He shook his head. “No, Herr Sturmbannführer,” he replied, “I do not recall that date.”
“How about the name Canaris?” Strelitz asked.
Of course! That was it. They had told him about it. “Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer. Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. The Admiral was arrested after the July attempt to assassinate the Führer. He was executed at Flossenburg—a few weeks before the camp was evacuated. In April.” He lit up. “Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer, April 9!”
“Do you remember anyone else?”
Anyone else? Dammit, what did the bastard mean. “Anyone else, Herr Surmbannführer?”
“Executed on that date,” Strelitz said impatiently.
Memory clicked. “Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer. General-major Hans Oster. And one more man. A clergyman. A traitor to the Reich. I do not remember his name. Bauhoffer, I believe.”
Strelitz nodded. “Dietrich Bonhoeffer,” he said. It was plausible, he thought. The Kerl knew. It was quite plausible that he would not remember everything. In fact, too perfect a memory would in itself be suspicious. The days at a concentration camp must have run into one another in dreary sameness. He would try one more question.
“Were you at Flossenburg since the camp was established in 1939, Diehl?”
“No, Herr Sturmbannführer. I was assigned to the camp in 1943. And, begging the Herr Sturmbannführer’s pardon, Flossenburg was established in 1938. In May.”
Strelitz nodded. “Of course,” he acknowledged. Schon gut, he thought. Diehl was Diehl. But—what was his great hurry?
“Hauptsturmführer Diehl,” he said, “I will be honest with you. There have been certain complaints against you. From the Anlaufstelle agents along the route.” He looked sternly at Woody. “You insisted on leaving Coburg ahead of schedule, and you arrived at the next stop in Neustadt considerably earlier than expected by the agent there—with consequences which could have become extremely serious. How did you accomplish this?”
“With the Herr Sturmbannführer’s permission,” Woody answered promptly. He was beginning to feel more confident. The bastard was buying his story. “We were supplied with bicycles for the trip. I—I stole a motorcycle on the way. I thought it would be easier on the Fräulein who had been entrusted into my care. And my training, Herr Sturmbannführer, in the SS had taught me to use my resources to the fullest.”
Strelitz suppressed a sour smile. The little Gauner—the little scoundrel—was trying to butter him up. It was not the first time that had been tried. “Why?” he snapped. “Why the great hurry?”
Shit! Here it was, Woody thought. He was stuck with it. He was stuck with what he had told Ludwig earlier. With Ludwig standing right behind him he obviously had to tell his interrogator the same damned thing. He almost glanced toward Ilse, who was sitting in stiff bitterness on the bed. He didn’t. What would she do?
“Herr Sturmbannführer,” he said earnestly. “I—I thought it best. Under the circumstances. I thought it best to get Fräulein Ilse to the port of embarkation as quickly as possible. The Fräulein seemed most anxious to get out of Germany. As quickly as possible.” He was obviously uncomfortable, but he pressed on. “I—I was not certain the Fräulein would bear up under a prolonged journey. And she wanted to—get away from the Amis.” That was it. That was what he had already told Ludwig.
He stopped. What would Ilse do? A contradiction. A demurral from her could finish him. Right now. With a bullet in his back.
There was not a sound from the girl.
“Why?” Strelitz shot at him.
“Because of . . .” Woody swallowed. Hard. “Because of her mother.”
Strelitz picked up. It was the first really unexpected answer he had received. “Her mother? What the devil has her mother to do with it?”
“Her mother was—Klara Gessner. Head of the Ravensbrück Concentration Camp guards,” Woody answered soberly. He saw his interrogator react to the name. He went on. “She prevailed upon the Herr Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler, personally, to have her daughter evacuated via the Achse.”
Strelitz threw a quick glance at the girl sitting silently on the bed, staring straight out in front of her. So, she was the daughter of Klara Gessner, he thought, intrigued. Die Ratte aus Ravensbrück. He knew of her, of course. Who did not? Naturally, the girl wanted to get away. Especially in view of what had happened to her mother. That last bit of information finished the case. It all made sense. If . . .
“Fräulein Gessner,” he said. “Is all this correct?”
“It is correct, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Ilse said tonelessly.
Strelitz nodded. He returned his attention to Woody. Klara Gessner’s daughter, he thought. And a young KZ guard officer. It was plausible. And it could easily be checked.
“Why are you so verdammt eager to leave, Diehl?” he asked.
Woody drew himself up. “Because of my duties at Flossenburg,” he answered. “Carrying out the orders of my superiors and the Führer. Strictly and efficiently, as required. The Amis are calling my actions atrocities. I am to be arrested as a war criminal, if apprehended.”
It was done. He had destroyed the last vestige of credibility with Ilse. “I abhor what went on in those camps as much as you do,” he’d said. “I was not involved,” he’d told her. It had been the truth. But now, she had to believe that his present lie was really the truth.
He only hoped it had saved their lives. He had no doubt that were he to be killed, Ilse would die, too.
Strelitz gathered his papers together. He looked up at Woody. “We will let you proceed on your way,” he said. Schon gut, he thought. But in no way would he allow them to catch up with Eva Braun Hitler. If they tried, even got close, they would be eliminated. He would see to that.
“Your stolen motorcycle will be confiscated,” he continued. “From now on you will go where and when and by whatever means directed by the Achse agents. Or we will be forced to terminate your journey right here. Is that fully understood?”
Woody snapped to. “Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer!”
Jawohl-Jawohl-Jawohl. He was Jawohling himself right out of any possibility of success in his mission. Dammit all to hell.
Strelitz stood up. “Ludwig,” he called.
The plant manager came up to Woody. He glared at him, animosity in his on
ce friendly eyes.
“You will leave here tomorrow morning,” he said. “You will travel by truck to Steingaden. You will be given the necessary papers and instructions before you leave. Meanwhile you will stay here.”
He and Strelitz left.
Woody walked over to Ilse. She would not look at him.
“Ilse,” he said, “I . . .”
She turned to him. “You saved me in the forest,” she said coldly. “I was in your debt.” Her eyes blazed anger and contempt at him. “But you lied to me when you denied being a KZ guard. You were! One of the worst.” She stopped. She glared at him.
“I despise you!” she spat.
Eva had promptly fallen in love with the little dachshund puppy. The black one with the limpid, brown eyes, the busy tongue and the tireless tail. He was one of a litter of four. He reminded her of Stasi. The mother, a stray, had been brought in by some children. They had found her lying in a gutted, abandoned farmhouse, badly injured and barely alive, with four lusty puppies fighting for her dry teats. She was still alive, although—according to the vet—it was only a matter of time.
The Anlaufstelle in Steingaden was a small animal hospital just south of the village, run by the local veterinarian, a man who looked to be in his late fifties, but whom Willi suspected was considerably younger. He limped because all the toes on his right foot had been amputated after they had become frostbitten at the Russian front.
It had been at Stalingrad, he told them, during the bitterly cold winter of ’43. He had been a member of the Veterinärkompanie attached to the 71st Infantry Division of Fieldmarshal Paulus’s 6th Army. On the door, sentimentally painted in black on a circle of carmine, the colors of the Veterinary Corps, was the military symbol denoting a veterinarian hospital: the serpent staff surrounded by a horseshoe.
The veterinarian, Gustav Klingmüller, was outgoing and talkative to the point of being garrulous. Once he had checked their identities to his satisfaction he had told them what pretty nearly amounted to his life’s story.