by Ben Stevens
Reluctantly picking it up, somehow certain that it boded no good, she went into the living room.
Sitting in the overstuffed armchair favoured by Marie’s grandmother when she’d been alive and turning on the tableside lamp, Friedeburg unfolded the piece of paper with shaking hands.
And then she bit her lip to stop herself from crying out as she read what was written in a sprawling, almost illegible hand:
You filthy, Jew loving bitch! I know that you are pregnant, and I know whose child it is. Soon everyone shall know!
Scrunching the foul message into a ball, she then placed it in the ashes of the fire that had burnt out earlier that evening. With matches she set it alight and watched with frightened eyes as it was devoured by yellow flames.
In her mind she pictured and heard the Gestapo beating down the front door, dragging away Marie and quite possibly herself to who knew what fate.
The hopeless deception was almost at an end: the message had proclaimed that Marie von Hahn’s pregnancy was a secret no longer.
*
At eight o’clock the following morning, a serious allegation concerning two members of Humboldt University’s music class was formally made by Fritz Muehlebach to his contact at the SD – in a flagrant breach of the Nuremberg Laws, a German woman had been made pregnant by a Mischling.
Wheels moved quickly, the report by the doctor who’d visited Marie von Hahn being obtained within the hour and examined. Nothing was found to support Muehlebach’s claim, and so a querulous Puttkamer was contacted at Mischling Headquarters. No, he too could find nothing to support such an allegation.
The article concerning Erich Heinemann in Der Stuermer some three months before had of course been noted, but with so much of what Julius Streicher printed being nothing other than utter rubbish not much notice had been taken.
Liaising with the Berlin Gestapo, the SD agreed that a female doctor in their employ should go to Marie von Hahn’s house with two members of the Gestapo. To be initially treated with the utmost courtesy, she was still to be forced to undergo an examination to confirm whether or not she was in fact pregnant.
In the event of this being confirmed, she would be taken to a former nunnery one hundred miles east of Berlin, where women suspected of having been made pregnant by a man of Jewish descent were initially held. And upon it being verified that they definitely had been, the pregnancy was aborted and they were transferred to a concentration camp.
As for Heinemann, it was agreed that his time had come regardless of whether or not the allegations were true. It was quite incredible that he’d managed to attend Humboldt University and avoid the claws of the Gestapo for so long – and so it was decided that on this occasion he should be snatched out of society for good.
21
As he made ready for university that morning, having made his report to the SD upon awakening, Muehlebach recalled with delight the note he’d posted to Marie von Hahn’s house late the previous night.
In the depths of his lust he’d often secretly followed her home, frequently wondering late at night with his eyes tight shut whether she was taking a bath at that precise moment, or whether she slept naked in bed.
Having anonymously posted Streicher the type of rumour he’d known would get the editor excited, he’d hoped that the consequent article would scare Marie away from having anything more to do with Heinemann.
But as she’d been such a bloody fool to do exactly the opposite – to actually go and sleep with the bastard (Muehlebach felt certain that she had) – he considered that she deserved everything that was coming to her.
With his report given Muehlebach washed his hands of the matter, and reflected that the two pro-Nazi students would soon be feeling pretty stupid for having believed a Mischling instead of himself.
22
Ten o’clock and Heinemann was extremely late for university. But what was the point in even going in? Every face seemed unfriendly; every tongue seemed to wag gossip concerning Marie and himself. All attending his lessons achieved was to give the Gestapo a definite location should they wish to pick him up again.
And he was tired – no, he was absolutely exhausted. The work he had to do for both the university and Mette Construction, coupled now with the threat of Marie’s pregnancy being discovered, had left him feeling as though he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Forces way outside of his control controlled his very existence, waiting for the right moment when they could have him destroyed.
As he put on his shirt he heard footsteps on the landing, and a moment later his door was kicked open and the two Gestapo men who’d first taken him to headquarters entered the room.
The man whose face was pitted with acne-scars and pimples walked over to where he was stood and punched him in the mouth, the blow knocking Heinemann onto the bed where he lay, stunned.
Smiling with all the geniality of a white shark, Pimple-face said, ‘Erich Heinemann – you are under arrest on suspicion of having committed racial pollution.’
‘Get up and come with us,’ said the other man.
Shaking violently Heinemann stood up, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of one hand. For a moment he feared he was going to be knocked back down, but taking a firm grip of his arm Pimple-face’s colleague escorted him out of the room.
The obligatory black Volkswagen was parked immediately outside the house, Heinemann shoved inside as Pimple-face said, ‘Didn’t think we’d forget about you, did you?’
His mind having become as numb as his lips Heinemann said nothing, looking out of the window as the car pulled away. It was over: it was done. He was being taken to Gestapo headquarters to be tortured, to have as much information extracted from him as was possible before he was shot or hanged.
So he vowed now to concentrate all his energy, all his strength, towards protecting Marie. To think of nothing now but saving her. Short of claiming that he’d actually raped her he would bring as much of the blame as was possible onto himself – she’d been drunk; he’d taken advantage. She was a little simple and he’d whispered sweet nothings in her ear in order to have his wicked way – whatever he had to say in order to safeguard her life, he would…
An inordinate amount of time later, he realised that he was not in fact being taken to headquarters – the car was leaving central Berlin, heading towards a far more rural area. A pine forest surrounded by fields of long grass came into view, the sky above white and low.
The road split this forest in two as it cut into it, the tall trees with many branches grouped close together on either side, blocking out much of the morning light. Taking a sudden turning off, the car bumped along a rough, earthy track for several hundred yards, passing two open gates.
And now Heinemann realised what was hidden within this pine forest – a small camp consisting of two long and low buildings made out of concrete and wood, with flat roofs.
Guarding the entrance was a small hut with a barrier to its side, Heinemann noticing that at this point a thick wire fence topped with barbed-wire ran away either side into the forest.
From out of this wooden hut emerged a man dressed in a shabby grey uniform, a rifle slung on his shoulder. Flicking away his cigarette, he raised his thick eyebrows in greeting to the two Gestapo men in the car, the driver winding down his window as the vehicle stopped.
‘Okay,’ said the guard, once he’d glanced at the man’s identification. He walked over to the barrier and opened it, the driver parking his car in one corner of the camp, next to an ancient lorry Heinemann suspected hadn’t been used since the last war.
‘Let’s go,’ said Pimple-face, pushing him on the shoulder.
The two Gestapo men and their prisoner walked across to one of the two buildings, Pimple-face opening the wooden door into a corridor that had five rooms on either side: there were small, barred apertures in the centres of all but two of the doors.
Grabbing hold of Heinemann’s arm, Pimple-face opened the door of the nearest room that had no
aperture and pushed him inside. It was large, cold. There was a swastika flag nailed to one wall – that was all. The concrete floor was covered with something gritty that crunched underfoot. There was no furniture.
‘Remain standing and do not so much as blink,’ said Pimple-face as he and his colleague left the room, closing the door behind them.
Dressed only in trousers and a shirt Heinemann was freezing: the desire to wrap his arms around himself and to walk quickly about the room, so to restore just a little bodily warmth, was overwhelming – but he considered it best to follow the Gestapo man’s order to the letter.
However, he dared to gingerly feel his split lips, his chin caked with dried blood. It had been a hard punch – the man wore a ring on one finger – and so he checked his teeth. One seemed a little chipped but otherwise they were fine.
Just why was he so concerned about his bloody teeth? he asked himself angrily. At any moment the party was certain to begin: two, three, four or more men would come in and give him the beating of his life.
And what then? Another audience with Commissioner Sasse, Heinemann bruised and battered and trying to remember through his pain just what he’d sworn to himself to say about Marie von Hahn?
He started as the door opened: he turned round to see a cadaverous man attired in the usual grey uniform. With his mouth wide open the man gave a ragged cough, spraying Heinemann with spittle. Behind him stood another, smaller and much fatter man.
‘Turn back round,’ said the cadaverous man, and though his voice was quiet it resonated in the large, cold and empty room.
As Heinemann obeyed the order he moved to stand right behind the Mischling, saying softly, ‘You’ve been placed in this labour camp because of some criminal activity – I don’t give a shit what it is. You will remain here until it’s been decided what further action is going to be taken. The slightest bit of trouble from you and you’ll be shot out of hand.’
With another extremely unhealthy-sounding cough, he said, ‘Eckhart, put this Yid in with Kasek; he hasn’t had a cellmate since the last bastard died. And get that Polish bastard off to work – he’s not that sick.’
Heinemann was escorted out of the building and into the other. Inside, the corridor again had five doors on either side, although this time they all had the small barred apertures. Unlocking one, Eckhart shoved Heinemann inside, the door banging shut behind him.
For a long moment Heinemann closed his eyes and did not notice the overpowering stench of excrement. He felt almost sick with relief, having been certain that he was about to be violently interrogated. But quite possibly this was only being temporarily delayed – the cadaverous man had said that further action was going to be taken. What were they waiting for – was Marie being questioned at this very moment, contradicting everything he’d planned to say himself? Please God they were treating her more gently than they were him.
Opening his eyes he saw that the small cell contained a bunk bed placed against one wall, a barred window set into another. On the thin mattress of the bottom bunk sprawled a grinning man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, his cracked and discoloured teeth working on a match. His eyes sparkled with amusement as Heinemann looked in disgust at the metal bucket in one corner.
The man stood up: he was short, stocky and broad-shouldered. Extending a hairy hand, he said, ‘Hello.’
Heinemann winced at his powerful grip as they shook. After a few moments spent studying him, the man said, ‘You have top bunk. What name?’
‘Heinemann. Erich Heinemann.’
‘Mine Kasek, just Kasek,’ the man said, his grin widening as he sprawled back on the mattress. ‘So why you here?’
Through his swollen lips Heinemann mumbled, ‘I’m half-Jewish, and there’re a lot of things you shouldn’t do when you’re half-Jewish. I did one of those things.’
Kasek’s grin abruptly disappeared; his eyes lost their good-humoured sparkle.
‘Jew?’ he whispered, seeming not to have heard the ‘half’. ‘You lucky – should be in Lager.’
This inappropriate description of Heinemann’s fortunes caused the young violinist’s grey eyes to suddenly smoulder with anger. And what was all this talk about a Lager? Surely to Christ there couldn’t be a worse place than this camp, with its tuberculosis-infected guards and cells that stank of shit.
‘Lucky?’ he hissed.
Spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture, Kasek said quickly, ‘Okay, okay. Maybe you not lucky.’
It became suddenly apparent to Heinemann that he would not be the only prisoner in this small camp with a hard-luck story; in spite of Kasek’s puckish demeanour he still noticed a certain hardness in the man’s hazel-brown eyes that signified past tragedy.
So dismissing the Polish man’s vague apology with a wave of his hand, he said quietly, ‘No, no – perhaps you’re right. But tell me: what are these Lagers?’
Looking incredulously at him, Kasek stopped chewing the match and said, ‘You not heard? Camp, bad camp. Jews, they go – die. Not only Jews. Other people.’
Wondering if this was what he had to look forward to, Heinemann grimaced and asked, ‘The toilet, is it…’
Nodding at the bucket in the corner, Kasek grinned again.
‘Follow nose, Erich. Follow nose.’
Standing above the bucket and unbuttoning his trousers, Heinemann tried not to look down as he urinated.
With a lazy chuckle, Kasek said, ‘Food here not good, give you shits. I not work morning for.’
Relieved, Heinemann hoisted himself onto the top bunk, wishing for a little silence so that he could think. It was going to take a little practice to interpret what his cellmate said, but he was sure that there were worst men with whom he could have been placed.
After a few moments the gibing voice below said, ‘Hey, Erich, not sleep! You me work soon.’
‘What about your guts?’
‘As I say – morning, yes. But day? No.’
‘What work is it?’
‘Dig in bloody big field. Trenches for building I think. Listen: when guard walk past you shut mouth look busy. You work with me perhaps. Guards not so bad but can be. Better than SS.’
The last three words were said more softly than the others, and seemed to lead Heinemann naturally to his next question:
‘Why are you here?’
There was a pause: in the stillness of the cell he could just hear Kasek’s teeth working on the match.
Slowly, the man who lay on the bottom bunk answered, ‘I Polish Officer, fight Hun when in Poland. Me and men caught in village – my men and those who in village put in barn. Barn set on fire.’
‘The whole village?’ whispered Heinemann.
‘Lot – old to babe. When some try escape, SS shoot them.’
This couldn’t be true, thought Heinemann dazedly. This man was mad to be saying such things. And yet there was an awful dead sincerity to his voice that informed the Mischling that none of this had been made up.
Well, he was getting an excellent education concerning the crimes of his country all right – first the talk of these apparent death-camps called Lagers; and now this reference to the SS being mass-murderers.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
The Pole’s voice was entirely denuded of emotion, Heinemann absolutely certain that the man was no longer grinning. The explanation for the tragedy he’d noticed lurking in the stocky prisoner’s otherwise cheerful eyes was obvious.
‘They make me watch. When I turn away, I hit. Laughing, say ask me questions then I dead. But ask question and then here – in 1939. That’s when I start speak German. Man in this cell then, teach me I ask. He do.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Get sick die. Maybe five month go. Was learning good but maybe now you here…’
There was the crunch of a key being placed in a lock and the guard called Eckhart entered the cell. Bareheaded, he carried a rifle on his shoulder.
Wincing at the stench, he said,
‘Kasek, you’re an animal. Get that bucket emptied before you and the Jew go to work.’
Dropping quickly down from his bunk, Heinemann recoiled as the Pole handed him the bucket, saying, ‘We do in turn. Your turn now. Normally do at night but…’
Reluctantly gripping the thin handle, Heinemann followed Eckhart and Kasek outside to an area of the camp furthest away from the buildings, next to the forest. A thick concrete structure spherical in shape rose three foot out of the ground, an iron hatch at its top.
‘Kasek, show him what to do,’ ordered the guard.
With a sigh of irritation the Pole took the bucket from Heinemann, saying, ‘Watch me.’
Opening the hatch, he quickly emptied the waste down it before closing it again. Then placing the bucket to one side, he said, ‘You leave there. With hose someone clean later. Does good; hardly no dysentery since I here.’
‘Too much chat,’ said Eckhart. ‘Let’s get going.’
Walking out of the camp, the three men followed the track towards the main road, Heinemann wondering if any prisoner had ever dared to make a break into the dark safety of the forest on either side. He noticed that now they were alone Eckhart had unshouldered his rifle, his finger on the trigger as he walked a little apart from the two prisoners.
Still dressed only in shirt and trousers and shaking with cold, Heinemann wondered if and when he was going to be given the prison uniform worn by Kasek. Brown, itchy-looking and covered in dried mud as it was, he was nevertheless certain that the jacket, shirt and trousers – along with the sturdy black boots – were far warmer and more suited to the labouring fatigues than his own attire.
Having reached the road they walked along it for approximately one hundred yards, Heinemann understanding that apart from the sight of themselves there was nothing to suggest to anyone driving past that the pine forest contained a small prison camp.
