Hunting the Hangman

by Howard Linskey

  The noise from the photo shoot became like the buzzing of so many distant insects as he scrutinised the numbers Klein had provided. One of the memos took the form of a table, with meticulously logged figures ascribed to particular dates and locations. Along the top ran the words: Men, Women, Children, and Total. From this chart Heydrich could see, for example, that nine hundred and sixty Jews had been executed by the men of the Einsatzgruppen on such and such a day in September, outside some unpronounceable village in Lithuania; that of these, four hundred and ninety two were men, three hundred and fifty seven women and one hundred and eleven children. Heydrich skipped the majority of these specific incidents and went straight to the tables at the foot of the memo. In total forty three thousand Jews had been eliminated in that same month across the whole region, an improvement of almost twelve thousand on the previous month.

  It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough!

  ‘Leave papa alone, Silke. He is trying to work.’

  Silke typically ignored her mother and blundered on her unsteady infant legs straight into her father’s shoes, tripping over them in the process. He looked down at the bemused figure of his infant daughter blinking back up at him. Silke seemed perplexed as to why she was now sitting on her backside in front of him, so he scooped her up into his arms and he clasped the gurgling, blonde child to his chest with one arm while he continued to read the papers, now held outstretched in his free hand.

  ‘Who’s papa’s girl then?’ he trilled.

  He was never comfortable with baby talk but Silke was the sole creature on the planet capable of reducing him to that level.

  ‘Who’s daddy’s favourite little girl?’ He checked another figure at the bottom of the page. Was the ratio of executed Jewish men disproportionately higher than that of the women? One would have expected almost an even spread but, judging by the quick sum he had done in his head, the women made up under forty per cent of the total number of adults killed. Were some of these Einsatzgruppen formations trying to dupe him? Allowing the women to flee while more comfortable killing off their menfolk. He was sure of it, and far from certain the men entrusted to carry out this most important work were hard enough to fulfil their mission.

  Silke gurgled and a trail of dribble fell from her mouth onto the breast pocket of his shirt, staining it dark.

  ‘Thank you, Silke, thank you so much, you messy little girl,’ he chided but his voice was not harsh, never departing from the sing song pitch of a nursery rhyme. He would hardly have to clean it himself and had been given the perfect excuse to call a halt to Zentner’s little farce. Besides, he could never stay annoyed at Silke, his pretty little blonde princess. Heaven help the man who wanted to take her away from him when she was older.

  Returning to the report he now examined the number of children eliminated. This surely was far too low. Some of these Jews bred like rats and had sizeable broods tagging on behind them. Was he really to believe the majority of the men and women killed were childless? Eleven per cent was an improbable figure. He would have it immediately questioned and investigated. The men in charge of the region were shirking their duty, letting children escape the necessary purging of Jewry. If they could not be relied upon to carry out the task he would replace them and find others who were stronger willed, without such ridiculous scruples. How often had they been told that to spare a child is only to assure Germany of a future enemy? Worse, it could allow cross breeding and the very real chance that polluted blood would be admitted into the Reich. Would they never learn? He felt he had hit upon the essential paradox that confronted these partial executioners. Even they would have to admit the folly of their acts of mercy when they thought about it closely.

  Heydrich kissed his unreceptive baby daughter on the forehead before handing her back to a beaming Lina. The photo shoot was apparently over after all and Frau Heydrich appeared delighted with proceedings.

  Heydrich, however, could not dismiss his anxiety over the partial failure in the east. The figures did not lie. In four months, the Einsatzgruppen had managed to dispose of just half a million Jews, by hangings, firing squads and other sundry methods of dispatch, and there were ten and a half million more to eliminate if Europe was to be entirely cleansed of Jewry. At this rate, it would take them approximately seven years to complete the job, a timescale Hitler simply would not countenance. No, this was very bad news indeed.

  And there was a further complication. Two days earlier Heydrich had been alarmed to receive Himmler’s secret memo, wordily entitled Observations concerning the psychological effects of the campaign in the east. The Reichsführer SS went on to list an array of negative symptoms, associated with the trauma of such wide scale killing, on the SS men tasked with the destruction of the Jews.

  While many SS men are comfortably shouldering the burdens placed on them, and a significant number relishes the accomplishment of this most important task, there has been a marked increase of late in the numbers requesting transfer to traditional, frontline combat duties, where they wrongly perceive they are facing a more equal and direct enemy. Suicide is not entirely uncommon and there have even been cases where SS men have turned murderously against their own comrades and have had to be eliminated for the protection of others. Naturally these cases have never, nor will ever, be made public. I have personally witnessed the special work being carried out and confess that it has the capacity to disturb even the strongest of wills. In conclusion, it would seem a solution is required to alleviate the psychological burden on our men. Please advise your earliest thoughts on this matter most urgently. Signed Heinrich Himmler – Reichsführer SS

  Heydrich had burned the memo instantly before returning to his desk to ponder its implications.

  Now, days later, he was still wrestling with the great logistical problem of processing eleven million Jews expeditiously and with the minimum of fuss. There must be an easier method than this he reasoned. A great administrative brain like Heydrich’s could surely come up with a more efficient system than the random lynching or ad hoc firing parties. Something more humane was required. That is, more humane to the killers.

  It had to be done to safeguard Heydrich’s future. He was running the east like a corporation, crossing Jews off the balance sheet, but not quickly enough. Not nearly quickly enough.

  Lina set Silke down and watched as she scampered after her brothers. Frau Heydrich walked adjacent to her husband, slipping her arm between his, and he noticed the bulge of her pregnancy was beginning to become visible now. Previously it had been hard to tell where the matronly figure of a woman in lower middle age ended and the early signs of maternity began.

  Lina rubbed her stomach joyfully. ‘I think that it is a boy.’

  They strolled slowly back to the house, the older children running ahead of them to keep up with the photographer and his assistants. The sun was beginning to reach its highest point of the day and the servants would be preparing lunch.

  Heydrich watched as Zentner bent to show little Klaus a camera, pausing to lower its strap over his head, looking for all the world as if he was awarding the little boy a medal. Klaus bent forward, his tiny head forced down by the weight of the camera, but he was entranced by its expensive, highly engineered, mystery.

  Heydrich and Lina were still some way from them, walking at little Silke’s unhurried pace.

  ‘Zentner?’ Heydrich asked sourly of his wife. ‘Does that not sound like a Jewish name to you?’

  4

  ‘The Czechs may squeal but we will have our hands on their throats before they can shout. And anyway who will come to help them?’

  Adolf Hitler

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my insistence on alcohol with every meal, Eduard,’ said Churchill. ‘I cannot abide it myself but I am afraid I am on strict doctor’s orders’.

  Eden let out a slight chuckle, not in the manner of the sycophant but with the tone of an equal who has heard the joke
many times before but still finds it amusing nonetheless. Churchill wrinkled up his forehead in a mock frown, screwed up his eyes in feigned concentration and embarked upon his tale.

  ‘While visiting America some years ago, I had the distinct misfortune to be run over by an automobile,’ the Prime Minister informed Beneš, ‘I had failed to predict its speed and the driver was unable to anticipate my… erm… lack of it. Mercifully the damage was slight and, save for a few dents, it appeared both the car and I would make a complete recovery. However, while being treated for a concussion, I was fortunate enough to be attended by a somewhat unorthodox physician, a Dr Otto Pickhardt. I told him there was nothing at all wrong that a stiff drop of brandy could not immediately cure. I firmly declared that a glass or two would banish my rather foul humour. I have to concede I was not the most tolerant of patients nor he, in turn, an overly indulgent physician. The good doctor had spent a lifetime treating more worthy patients, with far greater ills and much lesser notions of their own importance, than I. He looked me up and down before proclaiming with an undisguised loathing, “If that be the case I prescribe large quantities of alcoholic spirits at each and every meal time” and damned if he didn’t write out a prescription to go with those very words.’ Churchill let out a great snort.

  Beneš was charmed by a man of Churchill’s stature making fun of himself so easily.

  ‘I hear he carried that blessed piece of paper on him for years,’ Eden told Beneš.

  ‘Of course I did!’ confirmed the Prime Minister with a delighted snort. ‘How else could I convince Clementine? Every time I wanted a tipple she’d protest and I’d say “Look, look, doctor’s orders!” Used to infuriate her. In the end she’d mutter “You do what you want, you always do.” Doctor Pickhardt knows not the size of the favour he did me!’

  Their meal in Downing Street was indeed topped and tailed by first rate and carefully chosen wines; the men now completed their dining with a large measure of Hine and a fine Camacho and Romeo y Julieta. Beneš let the cigar last, puffing on it languorously between sips of Churchill’s brandy. Only after the cigars had almost been smoked did the talk finally turn to the specific matters on Beneš’ mind.

  ‘In the spirit of our joint campaign against the Nazis, I would like to repay your faith in us with a gesture from the Czech nation that will severely damage the German war effort.’

  ‘Any gesture of that nature would be sorely welcome,’ affirmed the Prime Minister.

  ‘For some time now my capital has been under the increasingly oppressive rule of the SS. There have been executions, detentions without trial, most cruel tortures and the elimination of the population’s few remaining liberties. I would place most of these vile acts at the hands of one man; the so called Reichsprotektor, Reinhard Heydrich.’

  ‘Agh yes, we know of him don’t we, Anthony? A most disagreeable Nazi, even among that godless bunch.’

  ‘We have files that will surely hang him after the war is over, even before we take into account what he is currently doing in Prague,’ agreed the Foreign Secretary.

  ‘I have a proposition to put to you that may eliminate the need for such files.’

  Churchill was watching him intently now. Was that a frown of disapproval?

  ‘I propose to send men into Prague to carry out the assassination of Heydrich. I seek your endorsement of this mission as an act of defiance against the Germans.’

  ‘I see,’ said Churchill in a tone that betrayed his surprise.

  He took a deep puff from the cigar, smacking his lips together audibly to coax out the precious smoke he had long ago become addicted to. Churchill’s ruddy complexion became obscured for an instant by a billowing grey veil, which finally dispersed as he began his answer and Beneš realised he was literally holding his own breath.

  ‘Just before the Battle of Waterloo, a conflict which decided the fate of Europe then as this one will now, the Duke of Wellington looked out at the fields in front of him, where one hundred and thirty thousand men stood ready to do battle, and he knew, inevitably, that a good number of those would lose their lives that day.

  ‘At that moment a young officer by his side pointed out a horse-backed figure in the middle distance, riding from one point of the French ranks to the next. It was clearly Napoleon, the Duke’s arch nemesis and the man to whom all of the coming carnage could justly be prescribed. Realising he had wandered within range, and in his eagerness to please the Duke and make history in the bargain, our youthful soldier offered to take a pot shot at the Froggy Emperor and eliminate all of England’s problems in one dread swoop. Wellington was outraged and admonished the officer for a gross act of ungentlemanly conduct and I don’t doubt that it was.’

  Beneš realised he was in for a lecture. Lord save me from the English and their outmoded sense of fairness, he thought. This is 1941, where Germans shoot hundreds every day, giving them a far less sporting chance than Napoleon of dodging the bullet. Beneš was just about to politely remind Churchill that it was no longer 1815 when the great man laughed.

  ‘But then Wellington didn’t have to contend with the Nazis, did he? If I’d have been astride his horse on that day, I’d have ordered every sharpshooter I had to open up on the bloated Frenchy and the battle would have been won in ten seconds not ten hours. Fifteen thousand British troops would have most probably been spared into the bargain.’

  Relief flooded through Beneš. Churchill was looking at his Foreign Secretary for confirmation, ‘We have looked at assassinations, even went so far as to put together some plans on how to dispose of the Nazi bigwigs, didn’t we? Poisoning, shootings and the like.’

  ‘We had SOE examine the vulnerability of targets like Göring, Goebbels, Himmler and, of course, Hitler himself at one stage; nothing ever really came of it. The file is still open but not active,’ Eden concluded reasonably.

  Churchill was addressing Beneš again. ‘Some of my compatriots dislike assassination attempts on moral grounds. I’m afraid I don’t share their view. How can we compete with the Nazis if we are only half as ruthless? Hitler wouldn’t flinch at having you or I hanged so I think it only fair to keep things mutual. No, I tend to be against it more because it’s messy and has little guarantee of success. So, the question is, do you really think this mission can be achieved?’

  ‘Our most recent intelligence reports indicate Heydrich has a distaste for normal security arrangements. He does not appear to believe we have the nerve to come after him.’

  Churchill harrumphed ‘Doesn’t he though? More fool he.’

  Eden was privately amused at his leader’s disdain; a hypocritical reaction considering the ulcers Churchill was undoubtedly causing Inspector Thompson, his earnest but harassed looking protection officer. The Scotland Yard Detective was continually hampered in his duties by Churchill’s cavalier attitude to the Blitz. At one point he had taken half the cabinet on to the roof of a tall building during the middle of an air raid to ‘watch the fireworks’.

  ‘According to my head of intelligence, he travels with one driver only for much of the time.’

  ‘It would certainly give Hitler a bloody nose and that’s no bad thing.’

  He was quiet again for a time and both Beneš and Eden found themselves waiting patiently for his next proclamation. ‘Of course, if you sent a force into occupied territory to despatch this criminal they would find it extremely difficult to get away afterwards, wouldn’t they – what with hundreds of aggrieved Germans hunting for them?

  ‘We think two well-chosen men could handle it.’

  Beneš was deflecting. He knew where the PM’s train of thought was leading.

  ‘Sounds a bit like a suicide mission to me.’ He pronounced it without emotion but Winston was looking directly into Beneš’ eyes now, leaving the President with the feeling he was being tested, that the Prime Minister wanted to see just how unflinching he could be.

  B
eneš took a sip of brandy. When he spoke, it was in a dead voice. ‘Regrettably, I think that it is.’

  Churchill would not let the matter conclude. ‘There is also the issue of retaliation against the civilian population. It would be harsh.’

  Eden added. ‘In France, they execute ten for every German private soldier killed during occupation. An SS general would exact a far bigger penalty.’

  ‘It is a regrettable fact the Nazis will leave a great many Czech orphans and widows before the end of this war whether we act now or not. There is no guarantee the figure will be any lower if we stand idly by.’

  His tone was more sullen than Beneš intended and it clearly meant this is my business not yours. But it had the desired effect.

  There was a moment’s silence while Churchill pondered the implications of the request, until finally he said, ‘Well then, there we have it. You have clearly thought matters through, Eduard, and we will be happy to grant you as much operational assistance as we are able.’

  ‘Thank you once again, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Assuming, of course, you can find the men to take on such a mission.’