Hunting the Hangman

by Howard Linskey

The Führer’s last act was to publicly embrace Klaus and Heider. Heydrich’s two small boys were the sole representatives of his family, due to the infancy of baby Silke and the absence of the traumatised and heavily pregnant Lina.

  Genuine expressions of grief or regret were noticeable by their absence. When mourners gathered after the ceremony, and felt obliged to comment on the passing of the blond beast, many of the party’s upper echelon had to rein in their sense of relief. Even Himmler, mentor of Heydrich for close to two decades, could breathe a little easier now his pathologically ambitious deputy was no longer in a position to covet his job.

  Only Canaris chose to publicly express his sadness. Schellenberg was astonished at one point to witness the Admiral weeping. ‘I have lost a good friend,’ the head of the Abwehr told everyone with conviction. It was a staggering claim from the rival most vulnerable to Heydrich’s endless plotting.

  When the funeral was over, the mourners, representing the very highest officers and officials of the Fatherland, wasted no time in leaving the building. The absence of a widow and the youth of Heydrich’s uncomprehending brood made their undignified exits far simpler.

  It’s time for me to leave too, thought Schellenberg. Karl Frank had offered the chance of revenge but he had declined. ‘Come back to Prague, use your experience and all of your skills to help me track down his killers. Nobody was closer to General Heydrich than you, Schellenberg.’

  If that were true, the statement spoke more about Heydrich than it ever would of Walter Schellenberg. He told Frank it was precisely his closeness to the general that disqualified him from tracking down his killers. ‘I would not be objective enough in this matter. You need a cooler head. I’ll leave it to you, Karl,’ he said. ‘I know you will succeed.’

  For some intangible reason Schellenberg had a bad feeling about the whole affair, instinctively wanting to remove himself from the hunt. It’s time to bow out. It ends here for me, he had decided. Schellenberg did not know exactly why but he was sure no good could come out of any of this.

  Within minutes of the climax of Hitler’s oration the Mosaic Hall was empty, save for a single sentry assigned to stand over the body, and Schellenberg who, out of duty, stayed till the last before saluting the coffin of his friendless leader. It’s as if he never existed thought the head of Foreign Intelligence as he turned on his heel and walked from the room.

  SS Hauptsturmführer Max Rostock knocked on the door of Karl Frank’s office, entering only when he heard a muffled permission from within.

  He found Frank sitting behind the desk formerly occupied by the Reichsprotektor. The Brigadeführer had explained, rather too publicly for some, that this was for operational reasons – to enable him to coordinate the twin effort of catching the assassins and ensuring good order in the Protectorate from a recognised central point. Most saw it as the latest step in Frank’s patently obvious attempt to secure the position of Reichsprotektor for himself. In taking the desk he was seizing the command, a psychological move designed to make it harder to deny him the position later.

  To witness Frank occupying a desk with a picture of Frau Heydrich and her offspring still resting on it was a distasteful sight. Few who met the general mourned him but that did not mean they would appreciate such an obvious dance upon his grave. Frank wasted no time at all in ensuring Heydrich’s trappings came to him. It was a shame he was already married thought Rostock for, had he been a single man, he would surely be round at Panenské Břežany now, comforting Lina Heydrich and ruffling the children’s hair. He would have taken Heydrich’s driver onto his staff too no doubt, if the poor man was not now incapable of walking.

  The two men exchanged formal greetings and Rostock was allowed to sit down, while Frank explained the purpose of his summons.

  ‘I have been in close and daily contact with the Führer since the despicable attack on Reichsprotektor Heydrich,’ the State Secretary explained with just the right level of frowning self-importance. ‘He feels, as I do, that a grand gesture is required to show the Czechs the futility of such acts. The careful, managed handling of that gesture will fall to you, Max.’

  Rostock realised he ought to acknowledge the appointment. ‘Thank you. I will not let the Brigadeführer down, whatever the assignment.’

  Frank continued as if he had not spoken. ‘The target has been chosen by my deputy, Horst Böhme, after lengthy investigations. It is a village in Bohemia near Kladno called…’ Frank seemed to have forgotten the name of the unfortunate place and he had to drag a map over from the corner of his desk then let his long fingers crawl to an area that had been circled. ‘Lidice,’ he proclaimed at last.

  Rostock decided he should demonstrate he was paying attention by asking an incisive question or two. ‘This village is linked with the attack?’

  ‘Not exactly. It is not as simple as that.’

  Frank paused and he looked directly at the young captain opposite him. The thirty-year-old was an ambitious man with a hard, serious face and his eyes were as unflinching as his resolve. Frank stared into them for a moment, as if he were examining the man for the possession of certain qualities, then finally he smiled.

  ‘I don’t think I need to be coy with you, Max. No one doubts your commitment. We have yet to fully establish a direct link between the village of Lidice and the men responsible for Heydrich’s death. However, we feel it is only a matter of time, and time is a luxury we cannot afford.’

  ‘The Führer is concerned if the Reichsprotektor’s death goes unpunished it could lead to a spate of similar attacks on senior officers across Europe. This village has had links with the resistance in the past. Only last year we caught a parachutist who carried contact addresses from Lidice on his person. The villagers are undoubtedly guilty of something. There is no smoke without fire after all. What we must ensure, what is most important to the Führer, is that Lidice acts as a suitable deterrent to anyone planning a similar assault. The villagers would doubtless applaud the attack on General Heydrich and that in itself is sufficient reason to act.’

  ‘Very well, I understand.’ And Rostock did, only too well. ‘What exactly would you like me to do? Are we describing a similar operation to the work of the Einsatzgruppen?’

  ‘No, we should go much further than that. Lidice must be a name that sticks in the minds of the Europeans under our dominion, thirty, fifty, perhaps one hundred years from now.’ Rostock was intrigued but he let Frank continue uninterrupted. ‘Are you familiar with Carthage?’

  ‘Carthage?’ The name rang the most distant of bells for the Hauptsturmführer but he could not place its significance. ‘I’m afraid I am not.’

  ‘Then allow me to give you a brief lesson in history. The Carthaginians had an empire once, centuries before the birth of Christ, which stretched the width of the Mediterranean. For seven hundred years it prospered, until they encountered a more advanced and superior culture in the Romans. The two empires initially struggled for dominance and Carthage even boasted some early victories; you must have heard of Hannibal and his elephants?’

  ‘Yes, of course. At school I…’ But Frank brooked no interruption.

  ‘These were mere delays before the inevitable collapse of the city to the Romans, which came at the end of a siege lasting more than three years. Imagine that, Max; such patience, these Romans, so implacable.’ Frank’s admiration was expressed with a furrowed brow and tightened fist. ‘Anyway, that is not the point of the story. The fact is Carthage was a visible symbol of defiance for years and the Romans were eager to ensure it never rose again, nor serve as an inspiration to other rebels. The world would have to see that resistance to the empire was futile. So, do you know what they did, Max?’

  Rostock gained the impression Frank was enjoying the telling of his story so, even had he known the outcome, he would have lied. ‘No, I am afraid not Herr Brigadeführer.’

  ‘They killed everybody. Every man, woman an
d child in the city was put to the sword, except a few who were marched in triumph through Rome. They burned all of the buildings to the ground and destroyed the city entirely. Then they went further.’ And he stabbed his finger onto the surface of the desk to show he was finally reaching his point. ‘The foundations were dug up and scattered, the soil was ploughed through and every last trace of Carthage systematically removed over a period of months. By the time the Romans were done it was possible to deny the city ever existed. It could have been a mere legend. No more Carthage, no more defiance.’

  Frank seemed to be reflecting on the words he had just uttered and Rostock deemed it unwise to interrupt his thoughts. Finally the Brigadeführer continued.

  ‘That was a city, Max; a city like Prague perhaps. I am entrusting you with the destruction of a mere village. Do not let me down. I want to send out a signal to these subhuman people every bit as powerful as the Roman message to their subjects. Months from now I want to walk across fields and find no evidence that Lidice once stood there – not one single brick. Is that understood?’

  ‘Completely, Herr Brigadeführer.’

  ‘Good, see to it and soon.’

  Ever eager to please a man of rank, Rostock was keen to show his enthusiasm for the task he had been allotted, for he knew it was the path to advancement.

  ‘I will be ready to begin tonight, with your permission.’

  ‘You have it Hauptsturmführer, now go about your mission.’

  Rostock took this as a dismissal and he rose from the chair, saluted his superior with a raised arm and an exchange of Heil Hitlers and made for the door. As he reached and opened it he heard Frank’s voice behind him.

  ‘Max?’ and Rostock turned to see a look of pure vindictive hatred on the State Secretary’s face. ‘Remember, not one brick.’

  35

  ‘Corn will grow where Lidice once stood’

  SS Brigadeführer Karl Frank,

  State Secretary of Bohemia and Moravia

  10 June 1942

  Rostock wore the frown of a man whose prospects are wholly dependent on the efficiency of others. The men of his unit were assembled, briefed and ready to go. He would even take the trouble to address them personally in advance of this most important of tasks.

  Initially he had fretted. Not a natural speaker, he worried he would be unable to find the words necessary to inspire them. Frank’s colourful comparisons with Carthage were beyond him. Instead he would have to find a way to appeal to their sense of vengeance while deflecting them from any thoughts of mercy towards the civilians they were about to destroy.

  Rostock stood before the men under his command at dusk that evening. His voice was strong and it carried clearly across the parade ground.

  ‘You are all decent men, good soldiers,’ he began. ‘Perhaps some of you may have…’ he searched for the appropriate word, ‘misgivings… following the orders from your sergeants. I tell you now… put them from your mind.’

  ‘The people of Lidice are agitators bent on the ultimate destruction of the Third Reich. They played a major part in the death of General Heydrich and he will be avenged.’

  Rostock saw no need to trouble his men with the moral vagaries of Lidice’s tenuous link to the resistance. It was better they went into the operation seeing their enemy clearly in the faces of the villagers.

  ‘Remember, you are Schutzstaffeln – the finest soldiers ever assembled in the history of the Fatherland. Act accordingly. I know you will not let your sergeants, myself or your Führer down.’

  The village of Lidice – population just 489 – had received visits from the Gestapo before and those who bothered to peel the curtains back an inch to investigate proceedings were not unduly alarmed by the sight of soldiers disembarking in front of their homes. They were obviously looking for someone or something. Fine, let them look, it was hardly the business of anyone except those brave enough or foolish enough to assist the resistance in their schemes. Most simply went back to bed, unaware of the impenetrable cordon of men and vehicles slowly encircling the village.

  ‘Nothing gets through, not even a rabbit,’ Rostock warned his men.

  As dawn broke, loudspeakers called the people from their homes. The more reticent were coaxed into the streets at rifle point during the house-to-house searches that followed; four soldiers per house, moving quickly. While one group separated the men over fifteen years of age from the women and children, another smaller band of soldiers took mattresses from the bedrooms and delivered them to the back of a large barn.

  The women were herded towards the trucks with their children, the men into the school hall. A collective wail of despair emanated from the women as they were forcibly parted from their menfolk. Some of the wives bent almost double, holding their hands outstretched as if they could actually reach the men and touch them, though they were yards away by now and separated by armed soldiers. Many of them called their husband’s name, others invoked the help of God. The cries of the women and children could be heard above the noise of the vehicles until they were driven away.

  When all was ready the first ten men were marched from the school building in an orderly line and made to stand before the wall of the barn. Now they would discover the purpose of the mattresses. These were placed on their ends and leant against the brickwork behind them to prevent ricochets. Rostock ensured his NCOs moved their men quickly. The first victims of Lidice barely had time to register their surroundings before a line of rifle-bearing Germans faced them. The few remaining seconds of their lives were, for the most part, passed in dumb disbelief. The order to aim then fire caused a decimating burst, which cut the men down.

  No sooner had they fallen to the ground than a young lieutenant moved in, using his Luger to finish off anyone continuing to show signs of life. By the time he had completed his duty the second group of incredulous villagers was marched into place. Rostock witnessed this line and twenty more like it as they were herded from the building and finished off by the firing squads. It was a textbook exercise in SS efficiency and he congratulated himself on his planning.

  The men faced their executioners in different ways, as one would expect. Some walked with a silent solemnity, accepting their deaths, facing the firing squad with dignity and, presumably, religious beliefs still intact. Some men wept and others prayed. A number passed into the next world more vocally but it mattered little to Rostock if they cursed his men or pleaded with them for mercy. They would all share the same fate.

  ‘Why do they do nothing, sir? Why not try and run, or rush us and fight with their bare hands?’ one of Rostock’s senior NCOs had asked when the executions were almost over. ‘If they all attacked at once it would be difficult to control and maybe one or two would make it.’

  ‘The hopelessness of their situation prevents it,’ Rostock explained.

  He glanced at one of the next victims, a man in his early twenties who was staring at the heap of bodies behind him as if they were all children playing a game and would surely rise to their feet again in a moment. Then he too joined them.

  The executions were carried out at an incredible rate. By 9.00 am there was not a man left alive in Lidice, and the Jewish work detail, brought in from Theresienstadt, began to move the first of the one hundred and ninety nine bodies to the freshly dug earth of a mass grave nearby.

  Rostock supervised the second phase of the operation in Kladno. The wailing of the children when they were taken from their mothers was the hardest part to endure. A handful, the eight most promising specimens, were sent to German families for Aryanisation, the remainder despatched to the new concentration camps. As they were prised from their mother’s grips, red eyed and weeping desolately, Rostock could not help thinking they almost resembled German children. He had to harden his heart temporarily until the untermensch were loaded onto separate trucks and driven from his sight.

  By evening the job was do
ne and the sky above Lidice illuminated by the flickering lights from scores of houses set ablaze. Tomorrow the blasting teams would destroy what was left, the rubble would be cleared and the land ploughed under. Rostock, witnessed the spectacle from an armoured car parked on a ridge and told himself it was a fine sight. His men had made him proud. They were good soldiers; organised, professional and disciplined men. The Romans could not have handled the exercise more efficiently.

  Čurda had almost known contentment. For a few uncomplicated weeks he treasured the sanctity of a family home, benefited from soft, clean linen on his bed and enjoyed the luxury of a full belly.

  All that changed following the reckless and ill-judged assassination of General Heydrich. Prague was in uproar and now, like every other parachutist in the area, he was a hunted fugitive. Zelenka had tried to persuade him to go into hiding with the others. The resistance man had a new safe house somewhere and had sent Aunt Marie to collect him personally.

  ‘Lieutenant Opálka is already there,’ she explained.

  ‘Already where?’

  ‘It’s a safe place in a church; you do not need to know which one. Come with me and I will take you there. It’s the only way, Karel. It is too dangerous for you in the open, you know that.’

  ‘Yes, alright, I agree but you must give me another day to get matters in order.’

  ‘What matters?’

  ‘There are some things even you are not permitted to know, Aunt Marie. You have your secrets and I have mine. This is to do with my mission.’

  As soon as Aunt Marie had gone, Čurda immediately left the family he was staying with and went on the run.

  Why could they not just leave him alone? He had nothing to do with the attack on Heydrich and was damned if he was going to be found guilty by association with the man’s killers by hiding out in the same location. It was Gabčík and Kubiš apparently – trust those fools to play the hero. What had they done? He would be better off alone, thank you very much. The whole world was looking for the two assassins now and one could only imagine what the Nazis would do to them both when they were caught.