by Ken Follett
‘We were colleagues at the German embassy in London,’ Gottfried said carefully. ‘That was in 1914.’ Clearly he was not so pleased to be reminded of his association with a social democrat. He took a piece of cake, clumsily dropped it on the rug, tried ineffectually to pick up the crumbs, then abandoned the effort and sat back.
Carla thought: What is he afraid of?
Heinrich got straight down to the purpose of the visit. ‘Father, I expect you’ve heard of Akelberg.’
Carla was watching Gottfried closely. There was a split-second flash of something in his expression, but he quickly adopted a pose of indifference. ‘A small town in Bavaria?’ he said.
‘There is a hospital there,’ said Heinrich. ‘For mentally handicapped people.’
‘I don’t think I was aware of that.’
‘We think something strange is going on there, and we wondered if you might know about it.’
‘I certainly don’t. What seems to be happening?’
Werner broke in. ‘My brother died there, apparently of appendicitis. Herr von Ulrich’s maid’s child died at the same time in the same hospital of the same illness.’
‘Very sad – but a coincidence, surely?’
Carla said: ‘My maid’s child did not have an appendix. It was removed two years ago.’
‘I understand why you are keen to ascertain the facts,’ said Gottfried. ‘This is deeply unsatisfactory. However, the likeliest explanation would seem to be clerical error.’
Werner said: ‘If so, we would like to know.’
‘Of course. Have you written to the hospital?’
Carla said: ‘I wrote to ask when my maid could visit her son. They never replied.’
Werner said: ‘My father telephoned the hospital this morning. The Senior Physician slammed the phone down on him.’
‘Oh, dear. Such bad manners. But, you know, this is hardly a Foreign Office matter.’
Werner leaned forward. ‘Herr von Kessel, is it possible that both boys were involved in a secret experiment that went wrong?’
Gottfried sat back. ‘Quite impossible,’ he said, and Carla had a feeling he was telling the truth. ‘That is definitely not happening.’ He sounded relieved.
Werner looked as if he had run out of questions, but Carla was not satisfied. She wondered why Gottfried seemed so happy about the assurance he had just given. Was it because he was concealing something worse?
She was struck by a possibility so appalling that she could hardly contemplate it.
Gottfried said: ‘Well, if that’s all . . .’
Carla said: ‘You’re very sure, sir, that they were not killed by an experimental therapy that went wrong?’
‘Very sure.’
‘To know for certain that is not true, you must have some knowledge of what is being done at Akelberg.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he said, but all his tension had returned, and she knew she was on to something.
‘I remember seeing a Nazi poster,’ she went on. It was this memory that had triggered her dreadful thought. ‘There was a picture of a male nurse and a mentally handicapped man. The text said something like: ‘Sixty thousand Reichsmarks is what this person suffering from hereditary defects costs the people’s community during his lifetime. Comrade, that is your money too!’ It was an advertisement for a magazine, I think.’
‘I have seen some of that propaganda,’ Gottfried said disdainfully, as if it were nothing to do with him.
Carla stood up. ‘You’re a Catholic, Herr von Kessel, and you brought up Heinrich in the Catholic faith.’
Gottfried made a scornful noise. ‘Heinrich says he’s an atheist now.’
‘But you’re not. And you believe that human life is sacred.’
‘Yes.’
‘You say that the doctors at Akelberg are not testing dangerous new therapies on handicapped people, and I believe you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But are they doing something else? Something worse?’
‘No, no.’
‘Are they deliberately killing the handicapped?’
Gottfried shook his head silently.
Carla moved closer to Gottfried and lowered her voice, as if they were the only two people in the room. ‘As a Catholic who believes that human life is sacred, will you put your hand on your heart and tell me that mentally ill children are not being murdered at Akelberg?’
Gottfried smiled, made a reassuring gesture, and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
Carla knelt on the rug in front of him. ‘Would you do that, please? Right now? Here in your house with you are four young Germans, your son and his three friends. Just tell us the truth. Look me in the eye and say that our government does not kill handicapped children.’
The silence in the room was total. Gottfried seemed about to speak, but changed his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, twisted his mouth into a grimace, and bowed his head. The four young people watched his facial contortions in amazement.
At last he opened his eyes. He looked at them one by one, ending with his gaze on his son.
Then he stood up and walked out of the room.
(iii)
The next day, Werner said to Carla: ‘This is awful. We’ve talked of the same thing for more than twenty-four hours. We’ll go mad if we don’t do something else. Let’s see a movie.’
They went to the Kurfürstendamm, a street of theatres and shops, always called the Ku’damm. Most of the good German film-makers had gone to Hollywood years ago, and the domestic movies were now second-rate. They saw Three Soldiers, set during the invasion of France.
The three soldiers were a tough Nazi sergeant, a snivelling complainer who looked a bit Jewish, and an earnest young man. The earnest one asked naive questions such as: ‘Do the Jews really do us any harm?’ and in answer received long, stern lectures from the sergeant. When battle was joined the sniveller admitted to being a Communist, deserted, and was blown up in an air raid. The earnest young man fought bravely, was promoted to sergeant, and became an admirer of the Führer. The script was dire but the battle scenes were exciting.
Werner held Carla’s hand all the way through. She hoped he would kiss her in the dark, but he did not.
As the lights came up he said: ‘Well, it was terrible, but it took my mind off things for a couple of hours.’
They went outside and found his car. ‘Shall we go for a drive?’ he said. ‘It could be our last chance. This car goes up on blocks next week.’
He drove out to the Grunewald. On the way, Carla’s thoughts inevitably returned to yesterday’s conversation with Gottfried von Kessel. No matter how many times she went over it in her mind, there was no way she could escape the terrible conclusion all four of them had reached at the end of it. Kurt and Axel had not been accidental victims of a dangerous medical experiment, as she had at first thought. Gottfried had denied that convincingly. But he had not been able to bring himself to deny that the government was deliberately killing the handicapped, and lying to their families about it. It was hard to believe, even of people as ruthless and brutal as the Nazis. Yet Gottfried’s response had been the clearest example of guilty behaviour that Carla had ever witnessed.
When they were in the forest Werner pulled off the road and drove along a track until the car was hidden by shrubbery. Carla guessed he had brought other girls to this spot.
He turned out the lights, and they were in deep darkness. ‘I’m going to speak to General Dorn,’ he said. Dorn was his boss, an important officer in the Air Force. ‘What about you?’
‘My father says there’s no political opposition left, but the churches are still strong. No one who is sincere about their religious beliefs could condone what’s being done.’
‘Are you religious?’ Werner asked.
‘Not really. My father is. For him, the Protestant faith is part of the German heritage he loves. Mother goes to church with him, though I suspect her theology might be a bit unorthodox. I believe in God, but I
can’t imagine He cares whether people are Protestant or Catholic or Muslim or Buddhist. And I like singing hymns.’
Werner’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘I can’t believe in a God who allows the Nazis to murder children.’
‘I don’t blame you.’
‘What is your father going to do?’
‘Speak to the pastor of our church.’
‘Good.’
They were silent for a while. He put his arm around her. ‘Is this all right?’ he said in a half-whisper.
She was tense with anticipation, and her voice seemed to fail. Her reply came out as a grunt. She tried again, and managed to say: ‘If it stops you feeling so sad . . . yes.’
Then he kissed her.
She kissed him back eagerly. He stroked her hair, then her breasts. At this point, she knew, a lot of girls would call a halt. They said if you went any further you would lose control of yourself.
Carla decided to risk it.
She touched his cheek while he was kissing her. She caressed his throat with her fingertips, enjoying the feel of the warm skin. She put her hand under his jacket and explored his body, her hand on his shoulder blades and his ribs and his spine.
She sighed when she felt his hand on her thigh, under her skirt. As soon as he touched her between her legs she parted her knees. Girls said a boy would think you cheap for doing that, but she could not help herself.
He touched her in just the right place. He did not try to put his hand inside her underwear, but stroked her lightly through the cotton. She heard herself making noises in her throat, quietly at first but then louder. Eventually she cried out with pleasure, burying her face in his neck to muffle the sound. Then she had to push his hand away because she felt too sensitive.
She was panting. As she began to get her breath back she kissed his neck. He touched her cheek lovingly.
After a minute she said: ‘Can I do something for you?’
‘Only if you want to.’
She was embarrassed by how much she wanted to. ‘The only thing is, I’ve never . . .’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you.’
(iv)
Pastor Ochs was a portly, comfortable clergyman with a large house, a nice wife and five children, and Carla feared he would refuse to get involved. But she underestimated him. He had already heard rumours that were troubling his conscience, and he agreed to go with Walter to the Wannsee Children’s Home. Professor Willrich could hardly refuse a visit from an interested clergyman.
They decided to take Carla with them, because she had witnessed the interview with Ada. The Director might find it more difficult to change his story in front of her.
On the train, Ochs suggested he should do the talking. ‘The Director is probably a Nazi,’ he said. Most people in senior jobs nowadays were party members. ‘He will naturally see a former social-democrat deputy as an enemy. I will play the role of unbiased arbitrator. That way, I believe, we may learn more.’
Carla was not sure about that. She felt her father would be a more expert questioner. But Walter went along with the pastor’s suggestion.
It was spring, and the weather was warmer than on Carla’s last visit. There were boats on the lake. Carla decided to ask Werner to come out here for a picnic. She wanted to make the most of him before he drifted off to another girl.
Professor Willrich had a fire blazing, but a window was open, letting in a fresh breeze off the water.
The Director shook hands with Pastor Ochs and Walter. He gave Carla a brief glance of recognition then ignored her. He invited them to sit down, but Carla saw there was angry hostility behind his superficial courtesy. Clearly he did not relish being questioned. He picked up one of his pipes and played with it nervously. He was less arrogant today, confronted by two mature men rather than a couple of young women.
Ochs opened the discussion. ‘Herr von Ulrich and others in my congregation are concerned, Professor Willrich, about the mysterious deaths of several handicapped children known to them.’
‘No children have died mysteriously here,’ Willrich shot back. ‘In fact, no child has died here in the last two years.’
Ochs turned to Walter. ‘I find that very reassuring, Walter, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Walter.
Carla did not, but she kept her mouth shut for the moment.
Ochs went on unctuously: ‘I feel sure that you give your charges the best possible care.’
‘Yes.’ Willrich looked a little less anxious.
‘But you do send children from here to other hospitals?’
‘Of course, if another institution can offer a child some treatment not available here.’
‘And when a child is transferred, I suppose you are not necessarily kept informed about his treatment or his condition thereafter.’
‘Exactly!’
‘Unless they come back.’
Willrich said nothing.
‘Have any come back?’
‘No.’
Ochs shrugged. ‘Then you cannot be expected to know what happened to them.’
‘Precisely.’
Ochs sat back and spread his hands in a gesture of openness. ‘So you have nothing to hide!’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Some of those transferred children have died.’
Willrich said nothing.
Ochs gently persisted. ‘That’s true, isn’t it?’
‘I cannot answer you with any certain knowledge, Herr Pastor.’
‘Ah!’ said Ochs. ‘Because even if one of those children died, you would not be notified.’
‘As we said before.’
‘Forgive me the repetition, but I simply want to establish beyond doubt that you cannot be asked to shed light on those deaths.’
‘Not at all.’
Once again Ochs turned to Walter. ‘I think we’re clearing matters up splendidly.’
Walter nodded.
Carla wanted to say Nothing has been cleared up!
But Ochs was speaking again. ‘Approximately how many children have you transferred in, say, the last twelve months.’
‘Ten,’ said Willrich. ‘Exactly.’ He smiled complacently. ‘We scientific men prefer not to deal in approximations.’
‘Ten patients, out of . . . ?’
‘Today we have one hundred and seven children here.’
‘A very small proportion!’ said Ochs.
Carla was getting angry. Ochs was obviously on Willrich’s side! Why was her father swallowing this?
Ochs said: ‘And did those children suffer from one common condition, or a variety?’
‘A variety.’ Willrich opened a folder on his desk. ‘Idiocy, Down’s syndrome, microcephaly, hydrocephaly, malformations of limbs, head and spinal column, and paralysis.’
‘These are the types of patient you were instructed to send to Akelberg.’
That was a jump. It was the first mention of Akelberg, and the first suggestion that Willrich had received instructions from a higher authority. Perhaps Ochs was more subtle than he had seemed.
Willrich opened his mouth to say something, but Ochs forestalled him with another question. ‘Were they all to receive the same special treatment?’
Willrich smiled. ‘Again, I was not informed, so I cannot tell you.’
‘You simply complied . . .’
‘With my instructions, yes.’
Ochs smiled. ‘You’re a judicious man. You choose your words carefully. Were the children all ages?’
‘Initially the programme was restricted to children under three, but later it was expanded to benefit all ages, yes.’
Carla noted the mention of a ‘programme’. That had not been admitted before. She began to realize that Ochs was cleverer than he might at first appear.
Ochs spoke his next sentence as if confirming something already stated. ‘And all handicapped Jewish children were included, irrespective of their particular disability.’
There was a moment of silence. Willri
ch looked shocked. Carla wondered how Ochs knew that about Jewish children. Perhaps he did not: he might have been guessing.
After a pause, Ochs added: ‘Jewish children, and those of mixed race, I should have said.’
Willrich did not speak, but gave a slight nod.
Ochs went on: ‘It’s unusual, in this day and age, for Jewish children to be given preference, isn’t it?’
Willrich looked away.
The pastor stood up, and when he spoke again his voice rang with anger. ‘You have told me that ten children suffering from a range of illnesses, who could not possibly all benefit from the same treatment, were sent away to a special hospital from which they never returned; and that Jews got priority. What did you think happened to them, Herr Professor Doctor Willrich? In God’s name, what did you think?’
Willrich looked as if he would cry.
‘You may say nothing, of course,’ Ochs said more quietly. ‘But one day you will be asked the same question by a higher authority – in fact, by the highest of all authorities.’
He stretched out his arm and pointed a condemning finger.
‘And on that day, my son, you will answer.’
With that he turned around and left the room.
Carla and Walter followed him out.
(v)
Inspector Thomas Macke smiled. Sometimes the enemies of the state did his job for him. Instead of working in secret, and hiding away where they were difficult to find, they identified themselves to him and generously provided irrefutable evidence of their crimes. They were like fish that did not require bait and a hook but simply jumped out of the river into the fisherman’s basket and begged to be fried.
Pastor Ochs was one such.
Macke read his letter again. It was addressed to the Justice Minister, Franz Gürtner.
Dear Minister,
Is the government killing handicapped children? I ask you this question bluntly because I must have a plain answer.
What a fool! If the answer was No, this was a criminal libel; if Yes, Ochs was guilty of revealing state secrets. Could he not figure that out for himself ?
After it became impossible to ignore rumours circulating in my congregation, I visited the Wannsee Children’s Nursing Home and spoke to its director, Professor Willrich. His responses were so unsatisfactory that I became convinced something terrible is going on, something that is presumably a crime and unquestionably a sin.
