by Ken Follett
He longed to open it, but he waited.
He got out of the cab at the hotel, but did not go inside. Instead, he walked through the Brandenburg Gate and into the park. The trees were showing bright new leaves. It was a warm spring day and there were plenty of afternoon strollers.
The magazine seemed to burn the skin of Volodya’s hand. He found an unobtrusive bench and sat down.
He unfolded the magazine and, behind its screen, he opened the buff-coloured envelope.
He drew out a document. It was a carbon copy, typed and a bit faint, but legible. It was headed:
DIRECTIVE NO. 21: CASE ‘BARBAROSSA’
Friedrich Barbarossa was the German Emperor who had led the Third Crusade in the year 1189.
The text began: ‘The German Wehrmacht must be prepared, even before the completion of the war against England, to overthrow Russia in a rapid campaign.’
Volodya found himself gasping for breath. This was dynamite. The Tokyo spy had been right, and Stalin wrong. And the Soviet Union was in mortal danger.
Heart pounding, Volodya looked at the end of the document. It was signed: ‘Adolf Hitler.’
He scanned the pages, looking for a date, and found one. The invasion was scheduled for 15 May 1941.
Next to this was a pencilled note in Werner Franck’s handwriting: ‘The date has now been changed to 22 June.’
‘Oh, my God, he’s done it,’ Volodya said aloud. ‘He’s confirmed the invasion.’
He put the document back into the envelope and the envelope into the magazine.
This changed everything.
He got up from the bench and walked back to the Soviet Embassy to give them the news.
(ix)
There was no railway station at Akelberg, so Carla and Frieda got off at the nearest stop, ten miles away, and wheeled their bicycles off the train.
They wore shorts, sweaters, and utilitarian sandals, and they had put their hair up in plaits. They looked like members of the League of German Girls, the Bund Deutscher Mädel or BDM. Such girls often took cycling holidays. Whether they did anything other than cycle, especially during the evenings in the spartan hostels at which they stayed, was the subject of much speculation. Boys said BDM stood for Bubi Drück Mir, Baby Do Me.
Carla and Frieda consulted their map then rode out of town in the direction of Akelberg.
Carla thought about her father every hour of every day. She knew she would never get over the horror of finding him savagely beaten and dying. She had cried for days. But alongside her grief was another emotion: rage. She was not merely going to be sad. She was going to do something about it.
Maud, distraught with grief, had at first tried to persuade Carla not to go to Akelberg. ‘My husband is dead, my son is in the army, I don’t want my daughter to put her life on the line too!’ she had wailed.
After the funeral, when horror and hysteria gave way to a calmer, more profound mourning, Carla had asked her what Walter would have wanted. Maud had thought for a long time. It was not until the next day that she answered. ‘He would have wanted you to carry on the fight.’
It was hard for Maud to say it, but they both knew it was true.
Frieda had had no such discussion with her parents. Her mother, Monika, had once loved Walter, and was devastated by his death; nonetheless, she would have been horrified if she knew what Frieda was doing. Her father, Ludi, would have locked her in the cellar. But they believed she was going bicycling. If anything, they might have suspected she was meeting some unsuitable boyfriend.
The countryside was hilly, but they were both in good shape, and an hour later they coasted down a slope into the small town of Akelberg. Carla felt apprehensive: they were entering enemy territory.
They went into a café. There was no Coca-Cola. ‘This isn’t Berlin!’ said the woman behind the counter, with as much indignation as if they had asked to be serenaded by an orchestra. Carla wondered why someone who disliked strangers would run a café.
They got glasses of Fanta, a German product, and took the opportunity to refill their water bottles.
They did not know the precise location of the hospital. They needed to ask directions, but Carla was concerned about arousing suspicion. The local Nazis might take an interest in strangers asking questions. As they were paying, Carla said: ‘We’re supposed to meet the rest of our group at the crossroads by the hospital. Which way is that?’
The woman would not meet her eye. ‘There’s no hospital here.’
‘The Akelberg Medical Institution,’ Carla persisted, quoting from the letterhead.
‘Must be another Akelberg.’
Carla thought she was lying. ‘How strange,’ she said, keeping up the pretence. ‘I hope we’re not in the wrong place.’
They wheeled their bikes along the high street. There was nothing else for it, Carla thought: she had to ask the way.
A harmless-looking old man was sitting on a bench outside a bar, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. ‘Where’s the hospital?’ Carla asked him, covering her anxiety with a cheery veneer.
‘Through the town and up the hill on your left,’ he said. ‘Don’t go inside, though – not many people come out!’ He cackled as if he had made a joke.
The directions were a bit vague, but might suffice, Carla thought. She decided she would not draw further attention by asking again.
A woman in a headscarf took the arm of the old man. ‘Pay no attention to him – he doesn’t know what he’s saying,’ she said, looking worried. She jerked him to his feet and hustled him along the sidewalk. ‘Keep your mouth shut, you old fool,’ she muttered.
It seemed these people had an inkling of what was going on in their neighbourhood. Fortunately their main reaction was to act surly and not get involved. Perhaps they would not be in a hurry to give information to the police or the Nazi party.
Carla and Frieda went farther along the street and found the youth hostel. There were thousands of such places in Germany, designed to cater for exactly such people as they were pretending to be, athletic youngsters on a vigorous open-air holiday. They checked in. The facilities were primitive, with three-tiered bunk beds, but the place was cheap.
It was late afternoon when they cycled out of town. After a mile they came to a left turn. There was no signpost, but the road led uphill, so they took it.
Carla’s apprehension intensified. The nearer they got, the harder it would be to seem innocent under questioning.
A mile later they saw a large house in a park. It did not seem to be walled or fenced, and the road led up to the door. Once again there were no signs.
Unconsciously, Carla had been expecting a hilltop castle of forbidding grey stone, with barred windows and ironbound oak doors. But this was a Bavarian country house, with steep overhanging roofs, wooden balconies, and a little bell tower. Surely nothing as horrible as child murder could go on here? It also seemed small, for a hospital. Then she saw that a modern extension had been added to one side, with a tall chimney.
They dismounted and leaned their bikes against the side of the building. Carla’s heart was in her mouth as they walked up the steps to the entrance. Why were there no guards? Because no one would be so foolhardy as to try to investigate the place?
There was no bell or knocker, but when Carla pushed the door it opened. She stepped inside, and Frieda followed. They found themselves in a cool hall with a stone floor and bare white walls. There were several rooms off the hall, but all the doors were closed. A middle-aged woman in spectacles was coming down a broad staircase. She wore a smart grey dress. ‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Hello,’ said Frieda casually.
‘What are you doing? You can’t come in here.’
Frieda and Carla had prepared a story. ‘I just wanted to visit the place where my brother died,’ Frieda said. ‘He was fifteen—’
‘This isn’t a public facility!’ the woman said indignantly.
‘Yes, it is.’ Frieda had been brought up in a wealthy family, an
d was not cowed by minor functionaries.
A nurse of about nineteen appeared from a side door and stared at them. The woman in the grey dress spoke to her. ‘Nurse König, fetch Herr Römer immediately.’
The nurse hurried away.
The woman said: ‘You should have written in advance.’
‘Did you not get my letter?’ said Frieda. ‘I wrote to the Senior Physician.’ This was not true: Frieda was improvising.
‘No such letter has been received!’ Clearly the woman felt that Frieda’s outrageous request could not possibly have gone unnoticed.
Carla was listening. The place was strangely quiet. She had dealt with physically and mentally handicapped people, adults and children, and they were not often silent. Even through these closed doors she should have been able to hear shouts, laughter, crying, voices raised in protest, and nonsensical ravings. But there was nothing. It was more like a morgue.
Frieda tried a new tack. ‘Perhaps you can tell me where my brother’s grave is. I’d like to visit it.’
‘There are no graves. We have an incinerator.’ She immediately corrected herself. ‘A cremation facility.’
Carla said: ‘I noticed the chimney.’
Frieda said: ‘What happened to my brother’s ashes?’
‘They will be sent to you in due course.’
‘Don’t mix them up with anyone else’s, will you?’
The woman’s neck reddened in a blush, and Carla guessed they did mix up the ashes, figuring that no one would know.
Nurse König reappeared, followed by a burly man in the white uniform of a male nurse. The woman said: ‘Ah, Römer. Please escort these girls off the premises.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Frieda. ‘Are you quite sure you’re doing the right thing? I only wanted to see the place where my brother died.’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Then you won’t mind letting me know your name.’
There was a second’s hesitation. ‘Frau Schmidt. Now please leave us.’
Römer moved towards them in a menacing way.
‘We’re going,’ Frieda said frostily. ‘We have no intention of giving Herr Römer an excuse to molest us.’
The man changed course and opened the door for them.
They went out, climbed on their bikes, and rode down the drive. Frieda said: ‘Do you think she believed our story?’
‘Totally,’ said Carla. ‘She didn’t even ask our names. If she had suspected the truth she would have called the police right away.’
‘But we didn’t learn much. We saw the chimney. But we didn’t find anything we could call proof.’
Carla felt a bit down. Getting evidence was not as easy as it sounded.
They returned to the hostel. They washed and changed and went out in search of something to eat. The only café was the one with the grumpy proprietress. They ate potato pancakes with sausage. Afterwards they went to the town’s bar. They ordered beers and spoke cheerfully to the other customers, but no one wanted to talk to them. This in itself was suspicious. People everywhere were wary of strangers, for anyone might be a Nazi snitch, but even so Carla wondered how many towns there were where two young girls could spend an hour in a bar without anyone even trying to flirt with them.
They returned to the hostel for an early night. Carla could not think what else to do. Tomorrow they would return home empty-handed. It seemed incredible that she should know about these awful killings yet be unable to stop them. She felt so frustrated she wanted to scream.
It occurred to her that Frau Schmidt – if that really was her name – might have further thoughts about her visitors. At the time, she had taken Carla and Frieda for what they claimed to be, but she might develop suspicions later, and call the police just to be safe. If that happened, Carla and Frieda would not be hard to find. There were just five people at the hostel tonight and they were the only girls. She listened in fear for the fatal knock on the door.
If they were questioned, they would tell part of the truth, saying that Frieda’s brother and Carla’s godson had died at Akelberg, and they wanted to visit their graves, or at least see the place where they died and spend a few minutes in remembrance. The local police might buy that story. But if they checked with Berlin they would swiftly learn the connection with Walter von Ulrich and Werner Franck, two men who had been investigated by the Gestapo for asking disloyal questions about Akelberg. Then Carla and Frieda would be deep in trouble.
As they were getting ready to go to bed in the uncomfortable-looking bunks, there was a knock at the door.
Carla’s heart stopped. She thought of what the Gestapo had done to her father. She knew she could not withstand torture. In two minutes she would name every Swing Kid she knew.
Frieda, who was less imaginative, said: ‘Don’t look so scared!’ and opened the door.
It was not the Gestapo but a small, pretty, blonde girl. It took Carla a moment to recognize her as Nurse König, out of uniform.
‘I have to speak to you,’ she said. She was distressed, breathless and tearful.
Frieda invited her in. She sat on a bunk bed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress. Then she said: ‘I can’t keep it inside any longer.’
Carla glanced at Frieda. They were thinking the same thing. Carla said: ‘Keep what inside, Nurse König?’
‘My name is Ilse.’
‘I’m Carla and this is Frieda. What’s on your mind, Ilse?’
Ilse spoke in a voice so low they could hardly hear her. She said: ‘We kill them.’
Carla could hardly breathe. She managed to say: ‘At the hospital?’
Ilse nodded. ‘The poor people who come in on the grey buses. Children, even babies, and old people, grandmothers. They’re all more or less helpless. Sometimes they’re horrid, dribbling and soiling themselves, but they can’t help it, and some of them are really sweet and innocent. It makes no difference – we kill them all.’
‘How do you do it?’
‘An injection of morphium-scopolamine.’
Carla nodded. It was a common anaesthetic, fatal in overdose. ‘What about the special treatments they’re supposed to have?’
Ilse shook her head. ‘There are no special treatments.’
Carla said: ‘Ilse, let me get this clear. Do they kill every patient that comes here?’
‘Every one.’
‘As soon as they arrive?’
‘Within a day, no more than two.’
It was what Carla had suspected but, even so, the stark reality was horrifying, and she felt nauseated.
After a minute she said: ‘Are there any patients there now?’
‘Not alive. We were giving injections this afternoon. That’s why Frau Schmidt was so frightened when you walked in.’
‘Why don’t they make it harder for strangers to get into the building?’
‘They think guards and barbed wire around a hospital would make it obvious that something sinister was going on. Anyway, no one ever tried to visit before you.’
‘How many people died today?’
‘Fifty-two.’
Carla’s skin crawled. ‘The hospital killed fifty-two people this afternoon, around the time we were there?’
‘Yes.’
‘So they’re all dead, now?’
Ilse nodded.
An intention had been germinating in Carla’s mind, and now she resolved to carry it out. ‘I want to see,’ she said.
Ilse looked frightened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I want to go inside the hospital and see those corpses.’
‘They’re burning them already.’
‘Then I want to see that. Can you sneak us in?’
‘Tonight?’
‘Right now.’
‘Oh, God.’
Carla said: ‘You don’t have to do anything. You’ve already been brave, just by talking to us. If you don’t want to do any more, it’s okay. But if we’re going to put a stop to this we need proof.’
‘Proo
f.’
‘Yes. Look, the government is ashamed of this project – that’s why it’s secret. The Nazis know that ordinary Germans won’t tolerate the killing of children. But people prefer to believe it’s not happening, and it’s easy for them to dismiss a rumour, especially if they hear it from a young girl. So we have to prove it to them.’
‘I see.’ Ilse’s pretty face took on a look of grim determination. ‘All right, then. I’ll take you.’
Carla stood up. ‘How do you normally get there?’
‘Bicycle. It’s outside.’
‘Then we’ll all ride.’
They went out. Darkness had fallen. The sky was partly cloudy, and the starlight was faint. They used their cycle lights as they rode out of town and up the hill. When they came in sight of the hospital they switched off their lights and continued on foot, pushing their bikes. Ilse took them by a forest path that led to the rear of the building.
Carla smelled an unpleasant odour, somewhat like a car’s exhaust. She sniffed.
Ilse whispered: ‘The incinerator.’
‘Oh, no!’
They hid the bikes in a shrubbery and walked silently to the back door. It was unlocked. They went in.
The corridors were bright. There were no shadowy corners: the place was lit like the hospital it pretended to be. If they met someone they would be seen clearly. Their clothes would give them away immediately as intruders. What would they do then? Run, probably.
Ilse walked quickly along a corridor, turned a corner, and opened a door. ‘In here,’ she whispered.
They walked in.
Frieda let out a squeal of horror and covered her mouth.
Carla whispered: ‘Oh, my soul.’
In a large, cold room were about thirty dead people, all lying face up on tables, naked. Some were fat, some thin; some old and withered, some children, and one baby of about a year. A few were bent and twisted, but most appeared physically normal.
Each one had a small sticking-plaster on the upper left arm, where the needle had gone in.
Carla heard Frieda crying softly.
She steeled her nerves. ‘Where are the others?’ she whispered.
‘Already gone to the furnace,’ Ilse replied.
