by Ken Follett
The man had the nerve to write of crimes! Did it not occur to him that accusing government agencies of illegal acts was itself an illegal act? Did he imagine he was living in a degenerate liberal democracy?
Macke knew what Ochs was complaining about. The programme was called Aktion T4 after its address, Tiergarten Strasse 4. The agency was officially the Charitable Foundation for Cure and Institutional Care, though it was supervised by Hitler’s personal office, the Chancellery of the Führer. Its job was to arrange the painless deaths of handicapped people who could not survive without costly care. It had done splendid work in the last couple of years, disposing of tens of thousands of useless people.
The problem was that German public opinion was not yet sophisticated enough to understand the need for such deaths, so the programme had to be kept quiet.
Macke was in on the secret. He had been promoted to Inspector and had at last been admitted to the Nazi party’s elite paramilitary Schutzstaffel, the SS. He had been briefed on Aktion T4 when he was assigned to the Ochs case. He felt proud: he was a real insider now.
Unfortunately, people had been careless, and there was a danger that the secret of Aktion T4 would get out.
It was Macke’s job to plug the leak.
Preliminary inquiries had swiftly revealed that there were three men to be silenced: Pastor Ochs, Walter von Ulrich, and Werner Franck.
Franck was the elder son of a radio manufacturer who had been an important early supporter of the Nazis. The manufacturer himself, Ludwig Franck, had initially made furious demands for information about the death of his disabled younger son, but had quickly fallen silent after a threat to close his factories. Young Werner, a fast-rising officer in the Air Ministry, had persisted in asking awkward questions, trying to involve his influential boss, General Dorn.
The Air Ministry, said to be the largest office building in Europe, was an ultra-modern edifice occupying an entire block of Wilhelm Strasse, just around the corner from Gestapo headquarters in Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Macke walked there.
In his SS uniform he was able to ignore the guards. At the reception desk he barked: ‘Take me to Lieutenant Werner Franck immediately.’
The receptionist took him up in an elevator and along a corridor to an open door leading into a small office. The young man at the desk did not at first look up from the papers in front of him. Observing him, Macke guessed he was about twenty-two years old. Why was he not with a front-line unit, bombing England? The father had probably pulled strings, Macke thought resentfully. Werner looked like a son of privilege: tailored uniform, gold rings, and over-long hair that was distinctly unmilitary. Macke despised him already.
Werner wrote a note with a pencil then looked up. The amiable expression on his face died quickly when he saw the SS uniform, and Macke noted with interest a flash of fear. The boy immediately tried to cover up with a show of bonhomie, standing up deferentially and smiling a welcome, but Macke was not fooled.
‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ said Werner. ‘Please be seated.’
‘Heil Hitler,’ said Macke.
‘Heil Hitler. How can I help you?’
‘Sit down and shut up, you foolish boy,’ Macke spat.
Werner struggled to hide his fear. ‘My goodness, what can I have done to incur such wrath?’
‘Don’t presume to question me. Speak when you’re spoken to.’
‘As you wish.’
‘From this moment on you will ask no further questions about your brother Axel.’
Macke was surprised to see a momentary look of relief pass over Werner’s face. That was puzzling. Had he been afraid of something else, something more frightening than the simple order to stop asking questions about his brother? Could Werner be involved in other subversive activities?
Probably not, Macke thought on reflection. Most likely Werner was relieved he was not being arrested and taken to the basement in Prinz Albrecht Strasse.
Werner was not yet completely cowed. He summoned the nerve to say: ‘Why should I not ask how my brother died?’
‘I told you not to question me. Be aware that you are being treated gently only because your father has been a valued friend of the Nazi party. Were it not for that, you would be in my office.’ That was a threat everyone understood.
‘I’m grateful for your forbearance,’ Werner said, struggling to retain a shred of dignity. ‘But I want to know who killed my brother, and why.’
‘You will learn no more, regardless of what you do. But any further inquiries will be regarded as treason.’
‘I hardly need to make further inquiries, after this visit from you. It is now clear that my worst suspicions were right.’
‘I require you to drop your seditious campaign immediately.’
Werner stared defiantly back but said nothing.
Macke said: ‘If you do not, General Dorn will be informed that there are questions about your loyalty.’ Werner could be in no doubt about what that meant. He would lose his cosy job here in Berlin and be dispatched to a barracks on an airstrip in northern France.
Werner looked less defiant, more thoughtful.
Macke stood up. He had spent enough time here. ‘Apparently General Dorn finds you a capable and intelligent assistant,’ he said. ‘If you do the right thing, you may continue in that role.’ He left the room.
He felt edgy and dissatisfied. He was not sure he had succeeded in crushing Werner’s will. He had sensed a bedrock defiance that remained untouched.
He turned his mind to Pastor Ochs. A different approach would be required for him. Macke returned to Gestapo headquarters and collected a small team: Reinhold Wagner, Klaus Richter and Günther Schneider. They took a black Mercedes 260D, the Gestapo’s favourite car, unobtrusive because many Berlin taxis were the same model and colour. In the early days, the Gestapo had been encouraged to make themselves visible and let the public see the brutal way they dealt with opposition. However, the terrorization of the German people had been accomplished long ago, and open violence was no longer necessary. Nowadays the Gestapo acted discreetly, always with a cloak of legality.
They drove to Ochs’s house next to the large Protestant church in Mitte, the central district. In the same way that Werner might think he was protected by his father, so Ochs probably imagined his church made him safe. He was about to learn otherwise.
Macke rang the bell: in the old days they would have kicked the door down, just for effect.
A maid opened the door, and he walked into a broad, well-lit hallway with polished floorboards and heavy rugs. The other three followed him in. ‘Where is your master?’ Macke said pleasantly to the maid.
He had not threatened her, but all the same she was frightened. ‘In his study, sir,’ she said, and she pointed to a door.
Macke said to Wagner: ‘Get the women and children together in the next room.’
Ochs opened the study door and looked into the hall, frowning. ‘What on earth is going on?’ he said indignantly.
Macke walked directly towards him, forcing him to step back and allow Macke to enter the room. It was a small, well-appointed den, with a leather-topped desk and shelves of biblical commentaries. ‘Close the door,’ said Macke.
Reluctantly, Ochs did as he was told; then he said: ‘You’d better have a very good explanation for this intrusion.’
‘Sit down and shut up,’ said Macke.
Ochs was dumbfounded. Probably he had not been told to shut up since he was a boy. Clergymen were not normally insulted, even by policemen. But the Nazis ignored such enfeebling conventions.
‘This is an outrage!’ Ochs managed at last. Then he sat down.
Outside the room, a woman’s voice was raised in protest: the wife, presumably. Ochs paled when he heard it, and rose from his chair.
Macke pushed him back down. ‘Stay where you are.’
Ochs was a heavy man, and taller than Macke, but he did not resist.
Macke loved to see these pompous types deflated by fear.
‘Who are you?’ said Ochs.
Macke never told them. They could guess, of course, but it was more frightening if they did not know for sure. Afterwards, in the unlikely event that anyone asked questions, the whole team would swear that they had begun by identifying themselves as police officers and showing their badges.
He went out. His men were hustling several children into the parlour. Macke told Reinhold Wagner to go into the study and keep Ochs there. Then he followed the children into the other room.
There were flowered curtains, family photographs on the mantelpiece, and a set of comfortable chairs upholstered in a checked fabric. It was a nice home and a nice family. Why could they not be loyal to the Reich and mind their own business?
The maid was by the window, hand over her mouth as if to stop herself crying out. Four children clustered around Ochs’s wife, a plain, heavy-breasted woman in her thirties. She held a fifth child in her arms, a girl of about two years with blonde ringlets.
Macke patted the girl’s head. ‘And what is this one’s name?’ he said.
Frau Ochs was terrified. She whispered: ‘Lieselotte. What do you want with us?’
‘Come to Uncle Thomas, little Lieselotte,’ said Macke, holding out his arms.
‘No!’ Frau Ochs cried. She clutched the child closer and turned away.
Lieselotte began to cry loudly.
Macke nodded to Klaus Richter.
Richter grabbed Frau Ochs from behind, pulling her arms back, forcing her to let go of the child. Macke took Lieselotte before she fell. The child wriggled like a fish, but he just held her tighter, as he would have held a cat. She wailed louder.
A boy of about twelve flung himself at Macke, small fists pounding ineffectually. It was about time he learned to respect authority, Macke decided. He put Lieselotte on his left hip then, with his right hand, picked the boy up by his shirt front and threw him across the room, making sure he landed in an upholstered chair. The boy yelled in fear and Frau Ochs screamed. The chair went over backwards and the boy tumbled to the floor. He was not really hurt but he began to cry.
Macke took Lieselotte out into the hall. She screamed at the top of her voice for her mother. Macke put her down. She ran to the parlour door and banged on it, screeching in terror. She had not yet learned to turn doorknobs, Macke noted.
Leaving the child in the hallway, Macke re-entered the study. Wagner was by the door, guarding it; Ochs was standing in the middle of the room, white with fear. ‘What are you doing to my children?’ he said. ‘Why is Lieselotte screaming?’
‘You will write a letter,’ Macke said.
‘Yes, yes, anything,’ Ochs said, going to the leather-topped desk.
‘Not now, later.’
‘All right.’
Macke was enjoying this. Ochs’s collapse was complete, unlike Werner’s. ‘A letter to the Justice Minister,’ he went on.
‘So that’s what this is about.’
‘You will say you now realize there is no truth in the allegations you made in your first letter. You were misled by secret Communists. You will apologize to the minister for the trouble you have caused by your incautious actions, and assure him that you will never again speak of the matter to anyone.’
‘Yes, yes, I will. What are they doing to my wife?’
‘Nothing. She is screaming because of what will happen to her if you fail to write the letter.’
‘I want to see her.’
‘It will be worse for her if you annoy me with stupid demands.’
‘Of course, I’m sorry, I beg your pardon.’
The opponents of Nazism were so weak. ‘Write the letter this evening, and mail it in the morning.’
‘Yes. Should I send you a copy?’
‘It will come to me anyway, you idiot. Do you think the minister himself reads your insane scribbling?’
‘No, no, of course not, I see that.’
Macke went to door. ‘And stay away from people like Walter von Ulrich.’
‘I will, I promise.’
Macke went out, beckoning Wagner to follow. Lieselotte was sitting on the floor screaming hysterically. Macke opened the parlour door and summoned Richter and Schneider.
They left the house.
‘Sometimes violence is quite unnecessary,’ Macke said reflectively as they got into the car.
Wagner took the wheel and Macke gave him the address of the von Ulrich house.
‘And then again, sometimes it’s the simplest way,’ he added.
Von Ulrich lived in the neighbourhood of the church. His house was a spacious old building that he evidently could not afford to maintain. The paint was peeling, the railings were rusty, and a broken window had been patched with cardboard. This was not unusual: wartime austerity meant that many houses were not kept up.
The door was opened by a maid. Macke presumed this was the woman whose handicapped child had started the whole problem – but he did not bother to enquire. There was no point in arresting girls.
Walter von Ulrich stepped into the hall from a side room.
Macke remembered him. He was the cousin of the Robert von Ulrich whose restaurant Macke and his brother had bought eight years ago. In those days he had been proud and arrogant. Now he wore a shabby suit, but his manner was still bold. ‘What do you want?’ he said, attempting to sound as if he still had the power to demand explanations.
Macke did not intend to waste much time here. ‘Cuff him,’ he said.
Wagner stepped forward with the handcuffs.
A tall, handsome woman appeared and stood in front of von Ulrich. ‘Tell me who you are and what you want,’ she demanded. She was obviously the wife. She had the hint of a foreign accent. No surprise there.
Wagner slapped her face, hard, and she staggered back.
‘Turn around and put your wrists together,’ Wagner said to von Ulrich. ‘Otherwise I’ll knock her teeth down her throat.’
Von Ulrich obeyed.
A pretty young woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform came rushing down the stairs. ‘Father!’ she said. ‘What’s happening?’
Macke wondered how many more people there might be in the house. He felt a twinge of anxiety. An ordinary family could not overcome trained police officers, but a crowd of them might create enough of a fracas for von Ulrich to slip away.
However, the man himself did not want a fight. ‘Don’t confront them!’ he said to his daughter in a voice of urgency. ‘Stay back!’
The nurse looked terrified and did as she was told.
Macke said: ‘Put him in the car.’
Wagner walked von Ulrich out of the door.
The wife began to sob.
The nurse said: ‘Where are you taking him?’
Macke went to the door. He looked at the three women: the maid, the wife and the daughter. ‘All this trouble,’ he said, ‘for the sake of an eight-year-old moron. I will never understand you people.’
He went out and got into the car.
They drove the short distance to Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Wagner parked at the back of the Gestapo headquarters building alongside a dozen identical black cars. They all got out.
They took von Ulrich in through a back door and down the stairs to the basement, and put him in a white-tiled room.
Macke opened a cupboard and took out three long, heavy clubs like American baseball bats. He gave one to each of his assistants.
‘Beat the shit out of him,’ he said; and he left them to it.
(vi)
Captain Volodya Peshkov, head of the Berlin section of Red Army Intelligence, met Werner Franck at the Invalids’ Cemetery beside the Berlin-Spandau Ship Canal.
It was a good choice. Looking around the graveyard carefully, Volodya was able to confirm that no one followed him or Werner in. The only other person present was an old woman in a black headscarf, and she was on her way out.
Their rendezvous was the tomb of General von Scharnhorst, a large pedestal bearing a slumbering lion made of melted
-down enemy cannons. It was a sunny day in spring, and the two young spies took off their jackets as they walked among the graves of German heroes.
After the Hitler–Stalin pact almost two years ago, Soviet espionage had continued in Germany, and so had surveillance of Soviet Embassy staff. Everyone saw the treaty as temporary, though no one knew how temporary. So counter-intelligence agents were still tailing Volodya everywhere.
They ought to be able to tell when he was going out on a genuine secret intelligence mission, he thought, for that was when he shook them off. If he went out to buy a frankfurter for lunch he let them shadow him. He wondered whether they were smart enough to figure that out.
‘Have you seen Lili Markgraf lately?’ said Werner.
She was a girl they had both dated at different times in the past. Volodya had now recruited her, and she had learned to encode and decode messages in the Red Army Intelligence cipher. Of course Volodya would not tell Werner that. ‘I haven’t seen her for a while,’ he lied. ‘How about you?’
Werner shook his head. ‘Someone else has won my heart.’ He seemed bashful. Perhaps he was embarrassed about belying his playboy reputation. ‘Anyway, why did you want to see me?’
‘We have received devastating information,’ Volodya said. ‘News that will change the course of history – if it is true.’
Werner looked sceptical.
Volodya went on: ‘A source has told us that Germany will invade the Soviet Union in June.’ He thrilled again as he said it. It was a huge triumph for Red Army Intelligence, and a terrible threat to the USSR.
Werner pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes in a gesture that probably made girls’ hearts beat faster. He said: ‘A reliable source?’
It was a journalist in Tokyo who was in the confidence of the German ambassador there, but was in fact a secret Communist. Everything he had said so far had turned out to be true. But Volodya could not tell Werner that. ‘Reliable,’ he said.
‘So you believe it?’
Volodya hesitated. That was the problem. Stalin did not believe it. He thought it was Allied disinformation intended to sow mistrust between himself and Hitler. Stalin’s scepticism about this intelligence coup had devastated Volodya’s superiors, souring their jubilation. ‘We seek verification,’ he said.
