by Ken Follett
His voice rang out between the echoing stones of the nave. ‘There is a place in Akelberg, Bavaria, where our government is breaking the commandment a hundred times a week!’
Carla gasped. He was doing it – he was preaching a sermon against the programme! This could change everything.
‘It makes no difference that the victims are handicapped, or mentally ill, or incapable of feeding themselves, or paralysed.’ Peter was letting his anger show. ‘Helpless babies and senile old people are all God’s children, and their lives are as sacred as yours and mine.’ His voice rose in volume. ‘To kill them is a mortal sin!’ He lifted his right arm and made a fist, and his voice shook with emotion. ‘I say to you that if we do nothing about it, we sin just as much as the doctors and nurses who administer the lethal injections. If we remain silent . . .’ He paused. ‘If we remain silent, we are murderers too!’
(xii)
Inspector Thomas Macke was furious. He had been made to look a fool in the eyes of Superintendent Kringelein and the rest of his superiors. He had assured them he had plugged the leak. The secret of Akelberg – and hospitals of the same kind in other parts of the country – was safe, he had said. He had tracked down the three troublemakers, Werner Franck, Pastor Ochs and Walter von Ulrich, and in different ways he had silenced each of them.
And yet the secret had come out.
The man responsible was an arrogant young priest called Peter.
Father Peter was in front of Macke now, naked, strapped by wrists and ankles to a specially constructed chair. He was bleeding from the ears, nose, and mouth, and had vomit all down his chest. Electrodes were attached to his lips, his nipples and his penis. A strap around his forehead prevented him from breaking his neck while the convulsions shook him.
A doctor sitting beside the priest checked his heart with a stethoscope and looked dubious. ‘He can’t stand much more,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Father Peter’s seditious sermon had been taken up elsewhere. The Bishop of Münster, a much more important clergyman, had preached a similar sermon, denouncing the T4 programme. The bishop had called upon Hitler to save the people from the Gestapo, cleverly implying that the Führer could not possibly know about the programme, thereby offering Hitler a ready-made alibi.
His sermon had been typed out and duplicated and passed from hand to hand all over Germany.
The Gestapo had arrested every person found in possession of a copy, but to no avail. It was the only time in the history of the Third Reich that there had been a public outcry against any government action.
The clampdown was savage, but it did no good: the duplicates of the sermon continued to proliferate, more clergymen prayed for the handicapped, and there was even a protest march in Akelberg. It was out of control.
And Macke was to blame.
He bent over Peter. The priest’s eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow, but he was conscious. Macke shouted in his ear: ‘Who told you about Akelberg?’
There was no reply.
Peter was Macke’s only lead. Investigations in the town of Akelberg had turned up nothing of significance. Reinhold Wagner had been told a story about two girl cyclists who had visited the hospital, but no one knew who they were; and another story about a nurse who had resigned suddenly, writing a letter saying she was getting married in haste, but not revealing who the husband was. Neither clue led anywhere. In any case, Macke felt sure this calamity could not be the work of a gaggle of girls.
Macke nodded to the technician operating the machine. He turned a knob.
Peter screamed in agony as the electrical current coursed through his body, torturing his nerves. He shook as if in a fit, and the hair on his head stood up.
The operator turned the current off.
Macke screamed: ‘Give me his name!’
At last Peter opened his mouth.
Macke leaned closer.
Peter whispered: ‘No man.’
‘A woman, then! Give me the name!’
‘It was an angel.’
‘Damn you to hell!’ Macke seized the knob and turned it. ‘This goes on until you tell me!’ he yelled, as Peter shuddered and screamed.
The door opened. A young detective looked in, turned pale, and beckoned to Macke.
The technician turned the current off, and the screaming stopped. The doctor leaned forward to check Peter’s heart.
The detective said: ‘Excuse me, Inspector Macke, but you’re wanted by Superintendent Kringelein.’
‘Now?’ said Macke irritably.
‘That’s what he said, sir.’
Macke looked at the doctor, who shrugged. ‘He’s young,’ he said. ‘He’ll be alive when you get back.’
Macke left the room and went upstairs with the detective. Kringelein’s office was on the first floor. Macke knocked and went in. ‘The damn priest hasn’t talked yet,’ he said without preamble. ‘I need more time.’
Kringelein was a slight man with spectacles, clever but weak-willed. A late convert to Nazism, he was not a member of the elite SS. He lacked the fervour of enthusiasts such as Macke. ‘Don’t bother any further with that priest,’ he said. ‘We’re no longer interested in any of the clergymen. Throw them in camps and forget them.’
Macke could not believe his ears. ‘But these people have conspired to undermine the Führer!’
‘And they have succeeded,’ said Kringelein. ‘Whereas you have failed.’
Macke suspected that Kringelein was privately pleased about this.
‘A decision has been made at the top,’ the superintendent went on. ‘Aktion T4 has been cancelled.’
Macke was flabbergasted. The Nazis never allowed their decisions to be swayed by the misgivings of the ignorant. ‘We didn’t get where we are by kowtowing to public opinion!’ he said.
‘We have this time.’
‘Why?’
‘The Führer neglected to explain his decision to me personally,’ Kringelein said sarcastically. ‘But I can guess. The programme has attracted remarkably angry protests from a normally passive public. If we persist with it, we risk an open confrontation with churches of all denominations. That would be a bad thing. We must not weaken the unity and determination of the German people – particularly right now, when we are at war with the Soviet Union, our strongest enemy yet. So the programme is cancelled.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Macke, controlling his anger. ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘Dismissed,’ said Kringelein.
Macke went to the door.
‘Macke.’
He turned. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Change your shirt.’
‘My shirt?’
‘There’s blood on it.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
Macke stamped down the stairs, boiling. He returned to the basement chamber. Father Peter was still alive.
Raging, he yelled again: ‘Who told you about Akelberg?’
There was no reply.
He turned the current up to maximum.
Father Peter screamed for a long time; then, at last, he fell into a final silence.
(xiii)
The villa where the Franck family lived was set in a small park. Two hundred yards from the house, on a slight rise, was a little pagoda, open on all sides, with seats. As children Carla and Frieda had pretended it was their country house, and had played for hours pretending to have grand parties where dozens of servants waited on their glamorous guests. Later it became their favourite place to sit and talk where no one could hear them.
‘The first time I sat on this bench, my feet didn’t reach the floor,’ Carla said.
Frieda said: ‘I wish we could go back to those days.’
It was a sultry afternoon, overcast and humid, and they both wore sleeveless dresses. They were in sombre mood. Father Peter was dead: he had committed suicide in custody, having become depressed about his crimes, according to the police. Carla wondered if he had been beaten as her father had
. It seemed dreadfully likely.
There were dozens more in police cells all over Germany. Some had protested publicly about the killing of the handicapped, others had done no more than pass round copies of Bishop von Galen’s sermon. She wondered if all of them would be tortured. She wondered how long she would escape such a fate.
Werner came out of the house with a tray. He carried it across the lawn to the pagoda. Cheerily he said: ‘How about some lemonade, girls?’
Carla looked away. ‘No, thank you,’ she said coldly. She did not understand how he could pretend to be her friend after the cowardice he had shown.
Frieda said: ‘Not for me.’
‘I hope we’re not bad friends,’ Werner said, looking at Carla.
How could he say such a thing? Of course they were bad friends.
Frieda said: ‘Father Peter is dead, Werner.’
Carla added: ‘Probably tortured to death by the Gestapo, because he refused to accept the murder of people such as your brother. My father is dead, too, for the same reason. Lots of other people are in jail or in camps. But you kept your cushy desk job, so that’s all right.’
Werner looked hurt. That surprised Carla. She had expected defiance, or at least an effort at insouciance. But he seemed genuinely upset. He said: ‘Don’t you think we each have our different ways of doing what we can?’
This was feeble. ‘You did nothing!’ Carla said.
‘Perhaps,’ he said sadly. ‘No lemonade, then?’
Neither girl answered, and he went back to the house.
Carla was indignant and angry, but she could not help also feeling regret. Before she discovered that Werner was a coward she had been embarking on a romance with him. She had liked him a lot, ten times more than any other boy she had kissed. She was not quite heartbroken, but she was deeply disappointed.
Frieda was luckier. This thought was prompted by the sight of Heinrich coming out of the house. Frieda was glamorous and fun-loving, and Heinrich was brooding and intense, but somehow they made a pair. ‘Are you in love with him?’ Carla said while he was still out of earshot.
‘I don’t know yet,’ Frieda replied. ‘He’s terribly sweet, though. I kind of adore him.’
That might not be love, Carla thought, but it was well on the way.
Heinrich was bursting with news. ‘I had to come and tell you right away,’ he said. ‘My father told me after lunch.’
‘What?’ said Frieda.
‘The government has cancelled the project. It was called Aktion T4. The killing of the handicapped. They’re stopping.’
Carla said: ‘You mean we won?’
Heinrich nodded vigorously. ‘My father is amazed. He says he has never known the Führer give in to public opinion before.’
Frieda said: ‘And we forced him to!’
‘Thank God no one knows that,’ Heinrich said fervently.
Carla said: ‘They’re just going to close the hospitals and end the whole programme?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My father says all those doctors and nurses are being transferred.’
Carla frowned. ‘Where?’
‘To Russia,’ said Heinrich.
9
1941 (II)
The phone rang on Greg Peshkov’s desk on a hot morning in July. He had finished his penultimate year at Harvard, and was once again interning at the State Department for the summer, working in the information office. He was good at physics and math, and passed exams effortlessly, but he had no interest in becoming a scientist. Politics was what excited him. He picked up the phone. ‘Greg Peshkov.’
‘Morning, Mr Peshkov. This is Tom Cranmer.’
Greg’s heart beat a little faster. ‘Thank you for returning my call. You obviously remember me.’
‘The Ritz-Carlton Hotel, 1935. Only time I ever got my picture in the paper.’
‘Are you still the hotel detective?’
‘I moved to retail. I’m a store detective now.’
‘Do you ever do any freelance work?’
‘Sure. What did you have in mind?’
‘I’m in my office now. I’d like to talk privately.’
‘You work in the Old Executive Office Building, across the street from the White House.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I’m a detective.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m around the corner, at Aroma Coffee on F Street and Nineteenth.’
‘I can’t come now.’ Greg looked at his watch. ‘In fact, I have to hang up right away.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘Give me an hour.’
Greg hurried down the stairs. He arrived at the main entrance just as a Rolls-Royce motor car came silently to a stop outside. An overweight chauffeur clambered out and opened the rear door. The passenger who emerged was tall, lean and handsome, with a full head of silver hair. He wore a perfectly cut double-breasted suit of pearl-grey flannel that draped him in a style only London tailors could achieve. As he ascended the granite steps to the huge building, his fat chauffeur hurried after him, carrying his briefcase.
He was Sumner Welles, Undersecretary of State, number two at the State Department, and personal friend of President Roosevelt.
The chauffeur was about to hand the briefcase to a waiting State Department usher when Greg stepped forward. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, and he smoothly took the briefcase from the chauffeur and held the door open. Then he followed Welles into the building.
Greg had got into the information office because he was able to show factual, well-written articles he had produced for the Harvard Crimson. However, he did not want to end up a press attaché. He had higher ambitions.
Greg admired Sumner Welles, who reminded him of his father. The good looks, the fine clothes and the charm concealed a ruthless operator. Welles was determined to take over from his boss, Secretary of State Cordell Hull, and never hesitated to go behind his back and speak directly to the President – which infuriated Hull. Greg found it exciting to be close to someone who had power and was not afraid to use it. That was what he wanted for himself.
Welles had taken a shine to him. People often did take a shine to Greg, especially when he wanted them to; but in the case of Welles there was another factor. Though Welles was married – apparently happily, to an heiress – he had a fondness for attractive young men.
Greg was heterosexual to a fault. He had a steady girl at Harvard, a Radcliffe student named Emily Hardcastle, who had promised to acquire a birth-control device before September; and here in Washington he was dating Rita, the voluptuous daughter of Congressman Lawrence of Texas. He walked a tightrope with Welles. He avoided all physical contact while being amiable enough to remain in favour. Also, he stayed away from Welles any time after the cocktail hour, when the older man’s inhibitions weakened and his hands began to stray.
Now, as the senior staff gathered in the office for the ten o’clock meeting, Welles said: ‘You can stay for this, my boy. It will be good for your education.’ Greg was thrilled. He wondered if the meeting would give him a chance to shine. He wanted people to notice him and be impressed.
A few minutes later, Senator Dewar arrived with his son Woody. Father and son were lanky and large-headed, and wore similar dark-blue single-breasted linen summer suits. However, Woody differed from his father in being artistic: his photographs for the Harvard Crimson had won prizes. Woody nodded to Welles’s senior assistant, Bexforth Ross: they must have met before. Bexforth was an excessively self-satisfied guy who called Greg ‘Russkie’ because of his Russian name.
Welles opened the meeting by saying: ‘I now have to tell you all something highly confidential that must not be repeated outside this room. The President is going to meet with the British Prime Minister early next month.’
Greg just stopped himself from saying Wow.
‘Good!’ said Gus Dewar. ‘Where?’
‘The plan is to rendezvous by s
hip somewhere in the Atlantic, for security and to reduce Churchill’s travel time. The President wants me to attend, while Secretary of State Hull stays here in Washington to mind the store. He also wants you there, Gus.’
‘I’m honoured,’ said Gus. ‘What’s the agenda?’
‘The British seem to have beaten off the threat of invasion, for now, but they’re too weak to attack the Germans on the European continent – unless we help. Therefore Churchill will ask us to declare war on Germany. We will refuse, of course. Once we’ve got past that, the President wants a joint statement of aims.’
‘Not war aims,’ Gus said.
‘No, because the United States is not at war and has no intention of going to war. But we are non-belligerently allied with the British, we’re supplying them with just about everything they need on unlimited credit, and when peace comes at last we expect to have a say in how the postwar world is run.’
‘Will that include a strengthened League of Nations?’ Gus asked. He was keen on this idea, Greg knew; and so was Welles.
‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you, Gus. If we want our plan implemented, we need to be prepared. We have to get FDR and Churchill to commit to it as part of their statement.’
Gus said: ‘We both know that the President is in favour, theoretically, but he’s nervous about public opinion.’
An aide came in and passed a note to Bexforth, who read it and said: ‘Oh! My goodness.’
Welles said testily: ‘What is it?’
‘The Japanese Imperial Council met last week, as you know,’ Bexforth said. ‘We have some intelligence on their deliberations.’
He was being vague about the source of information, but Greg knew what he meant. The Signal Intelligence Unit of the US Army was able to intercept and decode wireless messages from the Foreign Ministry in Tokyo to its embassies abroad. The data from these decrypts was codenamed MAGIC. Greg knew about this, even though he was not supposed to – in fact, there would have been a hell of a stink if the army found out he was in on the secret.
‘The Japanese discussed extending their empire,’ Bexforth went on. They had already annexed the vast region of Manchuria, Greg knew, and had moved troops into much of the rest of China. ‘They do not favour the option of westward expansion, into Siberia, which would mean war with the Soviet Union.’
