One Day in Oradour

by Helen Watts

  But this wasn’t what struck Scholz most. His eyes kept being drawn to the south-east portion of the circle, which took in the outskirts of Limoges. The circle encompassed the very same suburb in which Klausner’s papers had been found, and leading out from there was a good, fast road, leading all the way to Oradour. On a quiet night, it was a distance a car could cover in no more than twenty minutes.

  Scholz sat back in his chair and chewed on his lip as he firmed up his next move in his mind. He now had a new field of search. He would give the order to begin searching all the buildings and the wooded areas within a narrow corridor following that route out of Limoges, ending at Oradour.

  5: The Orders

  Major Gustav Dietrich arrived with his battalion at the barracks in Rouchehout, ten kilometres southwest of Saint Junien, feeling every one of his twenty-nine years. Their march north to Normandy had not begun well and repeated attacks from the Resistance, including the two in close succession as they crossed the Dordogne River, had taken their toll. The men had been on the move for days, snatching only a few hours’ sleep here and there. They were exhausted and hungry, and Dietrich was finding it difficult to keep their spirits up with the prospect of at least another four hard days of travel ahead.

  Dietrich was anxious to make up some of the time they had lost thanks to the Resistance, but he knew that to push his men on, before they had had time to rest and recover, would be counterproductive. Many of them were nursing injuries from the attacks and, as some of the battalion’s vehicles had been damaged beyond repair, there were others who had been forced to complete the route on foot and who were suffering from badly blistered feet.

  So although it was early morning, Dietrich sent his men to their bunks and would have gladly headed straight for his own quarters had he not been waylaid by a messenger claiming to have crucial intelligence from a French informant. Dietrich was so shocked by what he heard that he immediately summoned his driver. He had to get to Limoges, he yelled, and he had to get there fast.

  The warm morning sun did nothing to lift Dietrich’s mood as he arrived outside Scholz’s command centre in Limoges.

  ‘Wait here,’ he barked at his driver, Ragnar, as he straightened his hat. ‘This won’t take long.’

  Dietrich sprinted into the building, his long legs making light of the steep stone steps. Once in the marble hallway, he strode over to the young receptionist who was busy sending a telegram, and tapped sharply on her desk with his cane. The girl jumped and looked up at him wide-eyed.

  ‘Major Gustav Dietrich. Here to see Major General Scholz.’

  Although offended by Dietrich’s abrupt manner, the young girl was taken aback by his good looks and her hand hovered over the telephone, momentarily paralysed. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from his face, its features so finely chiselled, the nose so strong, his complexion smooth and sun-bronzed and his eyes a piercing blue.

  ‘I suggest you dial Major General Scholz’s number fast,’ said Dietrich sarcastically, ‘unless you want the blood of a top SS commander on your hands!’

  ‘Of course. Sorry, Major.’ The girl’s hand trembled as she dialled her boss’s extension. When she spoke into the receiver she dropped her eyes to her notepad, avoiding the compelling gaze of the man before her. She felt that if she looked at him, he would be able to see right into her soul.

  ‘There’s a… a Major Gustav Dietrich to see you, Major General,’ she stammered. ‘Yes, yes, of course. You can go straight in, Major,’ she said quickly, but when she looked up, Dietrich had already turned his back to her and was striding purposefully towards Scholz’s door.

  ‘I have an extremely distressing report from one of my informants,’ Dietrich announced, removing his gloves to reveal long, slender fingers, then folding them confidently on his knee. ‘A German commander, a high-ranking SS commander, has been kidnapped by the Resistance and is being held captive somewhere between here and Saint Junien.’

  Dietrich raised his chin and sat back in the chair, clearly expecting this revelation to be met with a strong reaction from his superior.

  ‘Yes, we are well aware of that,’ said Scholz, bristling at Dietrich’s over-confident manner. Dietrich had burst into his office and sat down with only the briefest of salutes. He was obviously a man with a very high opinion of himself.

  ‘You appear to be a little behind on the news around here,’ he added, watching Dietrich closely and enjoying the look of disappointment in his eyes. ‘That’s understandable, of course. I am aware that the Resistance has been keeping you busy, too, and of course you are to be congratulated on getting your battalion this far with so few losses. But I can assure you that the search for Major Klausner is well in hand also.’

  Scholz didn’t foresee the impact that the mention of Klausner’s name would have on Dietrich. The blood instantly drained from the Major’s face and his hands clenched into fists, the knuckles white.

  ‘They have taken Klausner? Major Thomas Klausner?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Scholz, taken aback. ‘But I can assure you that we are doing everything we can to find him and, as soon as he’s safe, we’ll eliminate his abductors.’

  Dietrich stood up and began pacing back and forth across the thin strip of red carpet in front of Scholz’s desk, twisting his gloves in his hands.

  ‘You know him personally?’ asked Scholz, cautiously, unnerved by the reaction he was witnessing.

  ‘We served together on the Eastern front. He is one of the best men I know. One of the bravest. Most decorated. And yes, I am proud to call him a friend. This can’t be happening!’

  The antagonism Scholz originally felt for Dietrich began to subside. ‘Trust me, we’ve been throwing everything at the situation. All through the night. All the men I have at my disposal. And we’re closing in. We’ve now narrowed the search to a strip of countryside between the outskirts of Limoges and a village called Oradour.’

  Scholz dropped his gaze. ‘It’s a little humiliating, I know, but I have ordered the search parties to take white flags with them.’

  Dietrich stopped pacing. ‘White flags?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Well,’ replied Scholz, feeling obliged to justify his decision, ‘even if we aren’t willing to negotiate, we may need the Resistance to think that we are. It might be the only way to get Klausner out alive.’

  Dietrich placed both hands on Scholz’s desk, looking him straight in the eye. ‘But don’t you realise, it could be too late?’ he said, through gritted teeth.

  ‘I don’t believe the Resistance will shoot him, if that’s what you mean,’ said Scholz. ‘He’s too valuable.’

  ‘No, they won’t shoot him,’ cried Dietrich, leaning aggressively towards Scholz across the desk, ‘because they intend to burn him alive!’

  Scholz shrank back. ‘Good God, man, what makes you think that?’

  ‘A French informant makes me think that. It’s going to be quite a ceremony, I believe,’ spat Dietrich. ‘And why wouldn’t they burn him? They’ve caught one of the highest-ranking SS officers they could possibly find. They want to send a message – a warning – to us all, and they want to make sure that we listen!’

  ‘I think you’d better sit down,’ Scholz said firmly.

  Reluctantly, Dietrich sat, shaking his head at Scholz’s apparent naivety.

  ‘Look, even if you’re right, we may still have time,’ continued Scholz. ‘The Resistance will want to make sure their actions have the biggest impact. And they can’t move Klausner far, we have men swarming like bees over the whole area between here and Oradour.’

  Dietrich sat forward in the chair, his blue eyes suddenly narrowing. ‘Why do you keep mentioning Oradour?’ he asked.

  Scholz gave Dietrich a summary of Heinz Goth’s kidnap and narrow escape and how Goth had seen a sign for Oradour near to the Resistance gang’s rendezvous point.

  ‘Then there’s no question,’ said Dietrich. ‘I should go straight to Oradour. I will turn out every house, every building, ever
y barn, until I find something.’

  ‘We don’t know for certain that that’s where Klausner is being held,’ said Scholz, sensing a need to rein in the young commander’s enthusiasm. ‘There are three other villages in that area that we haven’t yet searched. I agree that Oradour is a target for our search, but I will not have you storming in and stirring up more anti-German feeling. We are trying to smother our opposition, not fan the flames. And we have no firm evidence that anyone in Oradour is involved in this. In fact, I’m told that Oradour has always been a peaceful village with no track record of Resistance activity.’

  ‘But it’s the best place to start looking,’ said Dietrich, ‘and you need me to get involved. You need all the help you can get.’

  Scholz fought to control his anger at Dietrich’s thinly disguised insult. ‘Major Dietrich, you have a battalion to lead, and a long way to go before you reach Normandy. I have this under control.’

  ‘Maybe you do,’ said Dietrich, ‘but you have no one out there in the field of my calibre – no one who can think on their feet and direct the search better than I. Besides, I have to do this for Klausner. I can’t let him down.’

  Scholz sighed, relenting. He had taken a sound dislike to this arrogant man but he had to admire his persistence.

  ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘But if you’re going to get involved it will be on my terms. You will follow my orders. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Dietrich, putting on his gloves. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘You can take charge of 3rd Company. The Captain is Heinrich Krüger. You can brief him in Saint Junien and assemble the Company there. Looking at the size of the area we have to cover, I’d say you’ll need enough vehicles for about a hundred and eighty men.’

  Dietrich nodded sharply, eager to get going.

  ‘When you reach Oradour, surround the village. From the map it looks like it’s a relatively easy place to seal off but you’ve got time to study the road layout on your way back to Saint Junien. I think there are just four routes in and out. Oh, and there’s a tram line, so you’ll need to get some men posted at the tram station once you’re inside.’

  Scholz paused and looked Dietrich in the eyes. ‘My orders are that you search the village from top to bottom – but do it carefully. I don’t want any panic. Tell the villagers that it’s a standard search, that you just want to see their identity papers. But don’t leave any stone unturned. If Klausner is there, or there is any trace of him having been there, I want to know.’

  ‘And if I find nothing?’ asked Dietrich.

  ‘Then you move out,’ answered Scholz, slightly puzzled. ‘Report back to me and await my next orders. By then we might have located Klausner elsewhere. As I said, there is no guarantee that the kidnappers have any connection with Oradour.’

  ‘But there is another option,’ said Dietrich, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. ‘To ensure that our time is not completely wasted.’

  ‘And that would be?’ asked Scholz, warily.

  ‘I take hostages,’ said Dietrich. ‘As a bargaining tool. Why not play the Resistance at their own game?’

  Scholz sucked in his cheeks. He didn’t like the idea of taking civilians hostage. There had been too many cases under the leadership of General Müller where so-called hostages had ended up dead. Scholz was certain that Müller had never intended to use them for negotiation. But he couldn’t deny that there was logic in Dietrich’s idea – and if all their searches for Klausner proved futile, they would need a back-up plan.

  Dietrich was looking at him keenly, his blond eyebrows raised, willing him to agree.

  ‘Very well. You may take thirty hostages. No more. And they are not to be mistreated, understood? They are to be used to negotiate with the Resistance and for no other purpose. Remember who the enemy is here.’

  Scholz felt forced to stress this to Dietrich. He had heard much about this young soldier and his rapid rise through the ranks of the SS. He had an admirable military record but Scholz could also sense a ruthlessness and an impetuosity that made him nervous.

  ‘Is that all absolutely clear?’ Scholz asked again as he pushed back his chair and stood, ready to dismiss the young commander.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Dietrich, smiling as he rose to salute. ‘Get ready to be impressed, Major General.’

  6: Gustav Dietrich

  Gustav Herbert Dietrich was born at home in Freiburg in the early hours of a raw, frost-covered December day in 1914. A handsome and healthy-looking baby, with a mass of thick, dark hair, the newborn Gustav instantly invaded his mother’s heart and aroused such love and devotion that, as she kissed the long slender fingers on his tiny hands for the very first time, she swore that she would never love anyone as much as he. She knew that whatever this child did in his life, she would love and support him… and she would forgive him anything.

  To his father, the new baby was a triumph, the culmination of years of hope. Life was now as it should be and he had regained control of his destiny.

  Otto and Klara Dietrich had been trying for a baby ever since they married ten years before. Confused as to why God refused to grant her the one thing she wanted most in her life, Klara had suffered with recurring bouts of deep depression, during which she would retreat to her room for days, unable to face the world.

  At first, Otto sympathised with his wife in her anguish. He gave her the time she needed to work her way back from the darkness of her despair. But as the years went by, and no baby came, Otto grew resentful of Klara’s moods and found it harder to hide his impatience. He was tired of trying, weary of keeping up the pretence that all was well in the Dietrich household. His teaching career was blossoming, he had his sights on a headship at the boys’ school where he worked in Freiburg, and he needed a strong wife by his side.

  As the country moved dangerously towards war, Otto and Klara enjoyed a degree of shelter from the growing unease that was spreading around their city. As a teacher, Otto’s civilian post was secure, and in the autumn of 1913, his career ambition was fulfilled when he was appointed headmaster. Meanwhile Klara, now approaching thirty, finally seemed to be coming to terms with the prospect of life without motherhood. Her tendency to depression seemed to be lifting and the atmosphere in the Dietrich home was noticeably more cheerful and relaxed.

  Perhaps it was because the couple no longer obsessed over the idea of becoming parents; perhaps it was because Klara was happier; perhaps it was just fate. The cause didn’t matter to the Dietrichs. What did matter was that the spring of 1914 brought with it the promise of new life. Klara discovered that she was, at last, expecting a child.

  As if sensing how long his parents had longed for his arrival, little Gustav seemed determined, right from the start, not to let them down. Even as a toddler, all he wanted to do was please Otto and Klara, and he would cry huge tears whenever his father found reason to scold him.

  Although he loved his son, Otto was an academic to the core and he treated every day of Gustav’s life like an educational challenge. Every game, every play-time had a learning purpose, every meal was analysed for its nutritional value, every conversation was carefully structured, and every family day out was meticulously planned so that Gustav would return with his head full of facts.

  ‘He’s not one of your pupils, Otto, he’s your son,’ Klara remarked one day, as she heard him correcting Gustav’s grammar during what should have been a casual conversation over breakfast.

  ‘That may be the case, my dear,’ Otto replied, rather pompously, ‘but children’s brains are like sponges and it’s my duty to fill them up. If I can’t teach my own son properly, then what does that say about me?’

  Klara didn’t answer.

  ‘Mark my words, Gustav is going to be the brightest boy in his class when he goes to school.’

  In contrast to Otto’s rather austere, formal parenting style, Klara’s approach was to smother the boy with love. She was constantly kissing and cuddling him, tickling him and playing si
lly games. She would sing to him all the time and snuggle up next to him at bedtime to tell him stories at night. Gustav had become her world and she devoted her days to his happiness.

  ‘You spoil that boy,’ Otto would tell her. ‘You will make him too soft. He needs more discipline. A tougher backbone and a bit more male company wouldn’t hurt him either.’

  Klara wouldn’t argue with her husband, but nor would she listen to him. She disliked her husband’s strict, hands-off, businesslike approach to bringing up their son and was determined to make Gustav feel wanted and loved. So, even when he was in trouble with Otto, she would find a way to sneak him a cuddle, a kiss or a piece of gingerbread to help soothe his tears.

  But as Gustav grew older, reaching school age, Klara began to notice that all her warmth and outward displays of love were still not enough for her son. She could tell that Gustav craved a real demonstration of affection from his father. She sensed how deeply felt Otto’s reprimands were, and she knew that all Gustav wanted to do was please him.

  When she lay awake at night, listening to Otto’s gentle breathing, she would turn and look into his face and will him to wake up the next morning and be proud of his son and love him for who he was.

  Klara never knew whether Gustav managed to make his father proud, for one day, not long after Gustav’s ninth birthday, she collapsed while clearing the snow from the steps on the back porch.

  When the doctor had been and gone, Otto tried to explain to a dazed Gustav why nothing could have been done to stop the bleeding inside Klara’s head.