Huber's Tattoo

by Quentin Smith

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Mrs Barnabus, why did he shave his head?” Natasha asked, leaning forward.

  Good question Natasha, Henry thought.

  “When he began to drink too much he sometimes got into scrapes.” She paused. “Once, he had to have stitches… in hospital. They shaved some of his head. He did the rest later and liked it.”

  Just then a young boy in a Spiderman dressing gown rumbled down the short flight of stairs.

  “Mum, you should see the computer program I’ve written on Python. I can control the telly from my bedroom!” he shouted with boyish exuberance before stopping in his tracks upon seeing strangers in his lounge. He looked oddly disproportionate, with narrow hips and small shoulders leading to a bloated head covered with tousled brown curls, perched on the end of a stalk-like neck. Henry felt a tingle down his spine as he caught Natasha’s look of horror.

  “This is Dillon, our boy. He’s six. Just like his father, bright as a brass button.”

  Sixteen

  It had been a long day and all Henry wanted was to replenish his humanity at a cosy Lakeland hotel over a cold beer, relax, and get some sleep. But his guilt over leaving George was being fuelled by Natasha’s alluring perfume and yellow dress. Forgoing the beer, he drove to Carlisle where he managed to catch the last train which trundled back to Euston in a little over five hours, seemingly stopping at every station en route.

  At two in the morning he hailed a cab and thirty minutes later he turned the key in his apartment door to be greeted by silent darkness. It was the single loneliest moment he had experienced in some years as he stood motionless for a few uncertain seconds before flicking the light switch.

  The apartment was too tidy to be occupied and on the coffee table he saw a folded sheet of lined A5 paper. Dropping his keys wearily beside it, he picked up the note, unfolded it and read.

  Dear Henry

  I hope your trip to Grasmere was fruitful. Memorial service a real tear-jerker.

  Vera did not deserve to die, and I hope you catch the bastard who did it.

  I didn’t want to be alone here tonight, so as you were away I decided to fly back to Cairo.

  Take care. Be in touch.

  George -x-

  An emptiness aggravated by fatigue sank over him like a fog as he began to feel familiar throbbing in his head, relentless and intensifying. He thought of Natasha, asleep in her bed back at the Carlisle Travel Lodge where he had left her and longed for the feel of her fingers massaging his neck.

  Seventeen

  Hadamar, April 1937

  Huber climbed the broad spiral staircase two steps at a time, running his hand along the top of the ornate cast-iron banister. His black leather boots smacked every mahogany step and this echoed throughout the vast entrance hall of the Hadamar Institute.

  At the top he turned to his right down a short corridor and stopped in front of a plain wooden desk. Behind it sat a stern-faced woman wearing a demure lime-green dress, her hair gathered tightly into a bun behind her head. Huber snapped his heels together smartly and stood straight and rigid.

  “Obersturmführer Rolph Huber reporting to see the Standartenführer.”

  His eyes flicked to the opaque glass door to the left of the desk, adorned with small, black box-lettering that read: ‘Standartenführer Viktor Brack’.

  The secretary nodded formally and stood up, opening the door ever so slightly after a gentle knock on the pane of glass. She peered around the door but did not appear to say anything. Then she turned back to Huber without closing the door.

  “He will see you now.”

  Huber walked in stiffly, apprehensive whenever he entered the Chief’s office. Brack exuded an unmistakeable coldness, an indifference that Huber found chilling, even though he was as an exalted member of staff and one of the party faithful.

  “Ah, Huber, sit down,” Brack said from behind his large desk, strewn with documents and folders from one corner to another.

  Huber saluted and then removed his black SS cap, clasping it firmly between his arm and chest as he sat in the wooden armchair. The room was warm and smelled of fresh, strong coffee and the starch of his freshly pressed uniform.

  “You asked to see me, Standartenführer?” Huber said, clearing his throat.

  Brack stood up and removed his gold-rimmed glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose as he moved to the window. Outside in the gardens, apple trees laden with pink and white blossoms released a few at will to float through the air, like confetti, and decorate the manicured lawns beneath them.

  “We have been given a great honour and an even greater responsibility, we doctors in the Schutzstaffel, especially Section Five,” Brack said. “Do you know what it is?”

  Huber panicked for a moment, feeling pressure on him to produce the right answer to satisfy the important man who stood before him, modestly dressed in a brown woven jacket and grey trousers.

  “We have the honourable task of ensuring the racial cleansing of our people, ridding our society of weak genes and tainting influences, striving for Aryan purity, Standartenführer,” Huber said.

  “That’s right, Huber, people of great importance and influence, like Reichsführer Himmler, are dependent on us doctors to carry out this vital work.” Brack replaced his glasses and rocked gently on his heels.

  Huber frowned.

  “Have I done something wrong, Standartenführer?”

  Brack turned and almost smiled, though this would have been without precedent if he had.

  “You are doing good work here, Huber, and you have been a loyal and trusted member of our team. The genetic superiority of the German Reich is of vital importance to the Führer, but even more so, it is the time frame within which we can deliver it that is crucial.”

  Huber nodded cautiously, his eyes following Brack as he paced around the office between the tall windows, peering outside more than he did at Huber. Brack’s narrow-set eyes bestowed on him a predatory quality which, in combination with his aloofness, made him an enigmatic and unnerving personality. He stopped pacing and spun around to face Huber, raising his index finger in an emphatic gesture.

  “We are not making progress rapidly enough. Reichsführer Himmler wants us to accelerate the programme of racial and genetic cleansing. We must remove the Lebensunwertes Leben from society as quickly and effectively as we can. There is to be no tolerance of criminal, or homosexual, insane, weak, or degenerate individuals. These are all lives unworthy of life. You and I both know this.”

  “Lebensunwertes Leben, I understand, Standartenführer,” Huber said, feeling his mouth becoming dry in the presence of Brack’s zealous excitability on this topic.

  “Sterilizing individuals with undesirable characteristics does remove them from the Aryan chain of heredity, which is good, but it will take generations to remove them from society and replace them with racially pure and desirable citizens, people like you and me, Huber.”

  Brack suddenly moved forward and sat on the edge of the desk right beside Huber, who shifted uncomfortably at this intrusion. He could smell Brack’s breath, stale coffee and… did his nose betray him… tobacco?

  “Do you know what I’m saying, Huber?”

  Huber did not know how to respond, for he was both familiar with Brack’s rhetoric, but also somewhat confused.

  “Reichsführer Himmler has personally asked me to move the Hadamar program up a few notches, to accelerate the rate of cleansing in our tainted society. We do not have the resources to waste on these Lebensunwertes Leben.” Brack paused and then drew breath sharply. “Do you know that it costs Germany sixty thousand Reichsmark to care for one person with hereditary defects or imperfections? Sixty thousand! We cannot afford this, Huber, not while we are rebuilding our shattered nation.”

  Huber cleared his throat, needing an excuse to avert his eyes from Brack’s intense gaze.

  “What do you require of me, Standartenführer? You know I will do whatever I can do be of assistance to the Reichsführer
’s wishes.”

  Brack stood up and moved to the window once more, staring out and speaking without facing Huber.

  “The research being undertaken at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute is of great value to the Reich. Professor Vogt, you know him, of course?”

  “Yes, Standartenführer, we worked closely together,” Huber replied. “He is a brilliant neuroscientist.”

  “Vogt and his deputy, Klaus Bauer, have been working on a secret project conceived by the Reichsführer himself. It is a masterpiece, Huber, and they have already devoted several years of work to its implementation, ever since the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute was first established.”

  Huber sat frozen in his seat, mesmerized by Brack’s energy, but anxious at what he might hear next.

  “Do you know him?” Brack said, looking at Huber beneath his tangled eyebrows, much as a headmaster studies an errant pupil.

  “Professor Bauer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I worked with him. We know each other.”

  Brack paused, rubbing his chin.

  “I cannot tell you much, yet, as it is all Top Secret. Very few senior Schutzstaffel officers even know of this. You must swear that what we discuss does not leave this office, Obersturmführer.”

  He paused, and Huber felt compelled to respond, his heart beating a little faster and feeling a slight sweat breaking out on his shaven upper lip.

  “Of course, Standartenführer, I am loyal to my oath of allegiance and confidentiality.”

  Brack nodded, his narrow sloping shoulders straightening slightly beneath his thick jacket as he ran his fingers through the oily strands of thinning hair on his head.

  “What we need in Germany is a cataclysmic event to rebalance the racial order. You have heard of Charles Darwin, have you not?”

  “Of course, Standartenführer,” Huber said, shifting his weight in the creaking armchair.

  “He was a brilliant man with a brilliantly simple notion – only the strongest and the fittest should survive. But that does not happen anymore, does it Huber? Think of the people you have been assessing for the sterilization program here at Hadamar – cripples, degenerates, the weak and feeble-minded. In Darwin’s world they would not survive, would they?”

  Huber swallowed. He thought of the little deaf boy and his brother, both perfectly healthy German children, but burdened by sensory imperfections. Then his mind turned to Liesel who had died so young, deselected from the gene pool by her susceptibility to Scarlet Fever. Would she too be regarded as unworthy of surviving to live a full adult life as a deserving German citizen? Did the death of his young wife exemplify the very essence of Lebensunwertes Leben, those not worthy of life?

  “No, they would not, Standartenführer.” Huber studied the wooden floor boards beneath his polished boots.

  “But our society has allowed them to; our society cares for them and feeds them. They have become parasites on our backs. They contribute nothing and they consume too much.”

  Brack returned to his seat and placed his glasses on the desk in front of him, pulling out a handkerchief and polishing the lenses in turn.

  “Are you familiar with the Toba theory, Huber?” Brack said without looking up as he polished.

  “No, Standartenführer, I have not heard of him.”

  Brack frowned and raised the glasses up to the ceiling lights, staring through the lenses to check their cleanliness.

  “Toba was not a man but a volcano, a super volcano, and some scientists believe it was responsible for the last ice age seventy thousand years ago, and for the resultant evolution of Homo sapiens, modern man as we know him today.”

  Huber remained silent. He had never heard this before.

  “Toba may have been a cataclysmic event resulting in a sudden dramatic change in earth’s climate that pushed early man to the brink of extinction. Neanderthals became extinct. Only those with the intelligence to overcome the harsh conditions survived and we… we are the end product. Do you know what I’m saying, Huber?”

  “Er, no Standartenführer,” Huber admitted sheepishly, looking down at his boots. “I am a little confused.”

  “Germany needs the equivalent of a Toba catastrophe to wipe out the weak and the inferior with the stroke of a brush, leaving only the pure, the strong and the deserving behind to rebuild our once great nation.”

  Huber cleared his throat.

  “What would you like me to do, Standartenführer?”

  “To achieve our goal we must come at this problem from both ends.” Brack held his hands up about two feet apart, making a clawed fist with first his left hand. “On this end we remove the Lebensunwertes Leben from society.” He clawed the right hand. “On the other end we introduce superior genetic material back into the gene pool to refresh and uplift society.”

  Brack stood up and returned to the window, staring once again at the apple blossoms as they floated down from the trees in tranquil swathes on a gentle breeze. It was almost as if he had lost interest in Huber, who could now feel the damp discomfort of perspiration staining his armpits.

  “Have you heard of the Lebensborn programme, set up by Reichsführer Himmler two years ago?”

  “Yes, Standartenführer,” Huber was relieved to be able to say.

  “Good, because it is the Reichsführer’s wish for Professor Bauer to be given every support he needs in his venture. Bauer wants you to assist him at Heim Hochland.”

  Huber frowned and lowered his eyes, confused.

  “What about Professor Vogt?”

  Brack stood stiffly, looking out at the blossoms on the trees as the low rays of sunlight picked them out like the spotlight on a stage. He was silent for a few moments and then spoke without turning around.

  “Vogt did not embrace the Nazi master plan and has been dismissed. Bauer will lead the programme now, which is why we need you to assist him.”

  Huber was shocked: Vogt dismissed! The foremost neuroscientist of his generation, it was unthinkable. When he had been at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute he had not given much thought to politics, certainly not initially. It would never have occurred to him what Professor Vogt’s beliefs might have been, or that they could so drastically disadvantage his career.

  “Well, do you accept?” Brack asked, turning around sharply.

  Huber hadn’t even considered that he had a choice. He stood up and clicked his heels, saluting energetically, feeling the welcome circulation surging through his legs once more.

  “I am honoured to be chosen for this work, Standartenführer. When do I leave?”

  Brack looked at Huber without a flicker of emotion on his flaccid face.

  “You leave tomorrow by train. Your orders are in that envelope in front of you,” he said, pointing vaguely to the edge of the desk nearest Huber.

  Huber found the brown envelope marked ‘Top Secret’ in red ink and picked it up.

  “Oh, you’ve been promoted to Hauptsturmführer with immediate effect.”

  “Thank you,” Huber said with an irrepressible little smile of satisfaction. “May I ask where Heim Hochland is?”

  Brack looked up at him and sighed.

  “Steinhöring.”

  Eighteen

  London, 2011

  The atmosphere in the incident room was electric, virtually tangible. Everyone knew that something was afoot and this always created a palpable adrenaline rush on which policemen thrived. The idle talk on excited lips was of a manhunt, perhaps even a serial killer.

  Henry had been unable to sleep after his marathon journey home from Carlisle, perhaps because of the sleep, albeit interrupted, that had punctuated the unhurried train voyage, but a more likely explanation was the unsettled discomfort of his unexpected separation from George. Either way, by eight am his report was on Superintendent Steven Bruce’s desk; by midday a series of strategy meetings had already been held; by two a formal briefing for all MIT officers announced.

  Henry sat beside Natasha in the incident room. He had not shaved and his ma
ss of tousled hair looked even more unkempt than usual. To underline his sleep-deprived state, his eyes throbbed with a swollen pinkish glow, gritty with every blink of his eyelids.

  “Right, order please, everyone!” Bruce said firmly from the plain wooden podium at the front of the stark white square room, brightly lit by incandescent neon tubes.

  The room quietened immediately as everyone turned to face the Superintendent who was wearing his formal black tunic.

  “We now have three victims with possible links to each other. The first victim, Jeremy Haysbrook, male, forty-eight years old, was found in Greenwich Park two weeks ago.”

  As Bruce spoke portrait photographs of each victim were projected in turn on to a large white screen behind him.

  “The second, Vera Schmidt, female, forty years old, was discovered on Rainham Marshes in Purfleet ten days ago but was only brought to our attention several days later. The third, David Barnabus, male, thirty years old, was found in Grasmere three months ago, but only brought to our attention in the last few days.”

  Bruce looked up and searched for Henry in the audience of about twenty, both uniformed and plain clothes, officers.

  “Now, we do not have a scrap of specific information regarding a common perpetrator, a common motive, or even a common weapon, but there is enough information linking these three victims for us to raise the profile of this investigation and begin pooling resources. DCI Webber will fill us in on the specifics of the investigation to date,” he said, pointing at Henry, who stood up with a small wave of acknowledgement and turned to face the audience. He cleared his throat, trying to blink away the infernal grit in his eyes.

  “These are the facts we have established: all three victims were shot in the head at close range, no ballistics recovered, however. A 9mm Parabellum bullet that was found at the scene in Grasmere has not revealed any human DNA and therefore cannot at this stage be linked with certainty to the death of David Barnabus. There are, however, a number of unusual factors that all three of these otherwise quite disparate victims have in common.”