He leaned forward towards the desk and said, ‘How is your back, Major Spiers?’
Spiers continued to sift through the papers. He crushed his cigar in the ashtray, wiped flakes of ash from his fingers, and looked at Schwarzenbach. ‘Much improved, Dr Lutzke. Much improved. I was given a very useful liniment that helped in no time.’
Schwarzenbach smiled: ‘I’m glad of that.’
Spiers stood up suddenly and leaned against the edge of the desk. A sense of anger appeared to have come over him; his face was red, a nervous pulse moving in his throat. ‘I lost one of my men tonight. And another was seriously wounded.’
He thumped the desk and stared hard at Schwarzenbach. And then he was silent for a time, as if trying to control himself, struggling with an anger he felt to be emotional and therefore unprofessional.
‘I’m sorry about your men,’ Schwarzenbach said. ‘At the same time, I would like to protest about the ruthless behaviour of your soldiers.’ He watched the Major slump into his chair like a man overcome by a strange fatigue.
‘Ruthless?’ he asked.
‘I was struck by your sergeant and handled badly by one of your soldiers,’ Schwarzenbach said.
Spiers was silent again. He lit another cigar and blew smoke upwards at the ceiling, watching the strange shapes that curled around the lightbulb. ‘You better have a damn good reason for being in that apartment tonight, Lutzke.’
‘Very simple. The occupant of the apartment was a patient of mine. And I was there in a professional capacity. I didn’t expect him to have company.’
‘Too easy,’ Spiers said. ‘Too fucking easy. Try me again.’
Schwarzenbach smiled and shrugged. ‘The truth is frequently very simple, Major.’
‘You’re trying to tell me you were Helmut Broszat’s physician?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And you knew nothing about his past?’
‘Nothing at all. I knew of his medical past, of course, but nothing else. Needless to say, I was a little surprised to find his apartment so fancifully decorated. When your men arrived on the scene I was about to leave –’
Spiers shook his head. ‘Helmut Broszat was wanted by us. And wanted by the Russians. The list of crimes alleged against him is as long as your arm. But am I telling you anything you don’t already know?’
‘I never asked about his past. He came to me with a minor heart complaint. Thanks to your men, he’s been cured of that.’
‘Funny man, Lutzke.’ Spiers bit on his cigar and yawned. ‘We only expected to get Broszat. But it wasn’t such a bad haul, was it?’
Schwarzenbach was silent. He felt tired all at once and wanted nothing more than to sleep. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of Spier’s voice as it began to list the men who had either been killed or captured, and the crimes they had committed.
‘Well, Lutzke. Where do you fit into that little gang?’
Schwarzenbach opened his eyes. The room seemed blindingly bright. ‘I’ve already told you, Major. I was Broszat’s physician.’
‘You’ve got to try harder, Lutzke.’
‘I’ve nothing more to add.’
Spiers got up and began to walk around the room, a stream of broken cigar smoke trailing behind him. ‘Swastika. Hitler’s snapshot. Come on, Lutzke – convince me of your innocence.’
‘You know my war record. I was never SS. I wasn’t even in the Party.’
‘Sure, Lutzke. You’ve got all the documents. We’ve seen your papers. But there’s something wrong. Why doesn’t it add up? Why?’
‘You’re professionally suspicious, Major.’
‘Not only me, Doctor. Captain Eberhard feels much the same.’
Schwarzenbach spread his hands. The cold night air had filtered into the room and the curtains that hung at the window shook slightly. ‘I’m sorry. I’d like to help.’
Spiers smiled for a moment. ‘You weren’t Broszat’s physician. You went to his apartment expecting to participate in a pleasant little gathering of old friends and colleagues. Talk of old times. A few laughs. Just a few of the old SS boys reminiscing. What the hell did you talk about? Auschwitz? Dreams of how you’re going to get it all started up again when the occupying armies have gone home? Is that it?’
Schwarzenbach remained calm. It was obvious now that Spiers knew nothing of any substance. He was digging, throwing accusations around, clutching empty air – but he knew nothing.
‘I repeat, Major. I was never involved with the SS.’
Spiers went to the window and ran his finger in the condensation that lay on the glass. He traced a series of tiny cubes, as if he were trying to construct a definite pattern.
‘Lutzke, it doesn’t fit. We pick you up at an SS nostalgia meeting with some pretty murderous characters, and you claim you weren’t taking part.’
Schwarzenbach licked his dry lips and watched the Major at the window. What would happen now? Would he be detained during further enquiries? Or would he be set free?
Spiers dropped his hand to his side and stared at his creation on the window. ‘What if I told you that Katzmann had talked? What if I said that Katzmann had told us everything about you?’
Schwarzenbach was momentarily confused. ‘I wouldn’t believe you. For one thing, I don’t know Katzmann. For another, he knows nothing about me.’
Spiers drew on his cigar, the end of which was sodden and misshapen. ‘Okay. What about this then? In Chelmno concentration camp there was a certain Dr Schwarzenbach who specialized in inflicting pain and invariably causing death. In late 1944, this character left Chelmno and disappeared. Now – what if I told you that Katzmann had informed us that you are Schwarzenbach?’
‘I would laugh. Because you think I’m naïve enough to believe you – and because there isn’t a bit of truth in that,’ Schwarzenbach felt a brief sensation of fear, a burning in the base of his stomach. How far could Spiers go? How much did he know and how much had he simply guessed?
‘Reference to this Schwarzenbach was discovered in the papers of Hans Bothmann, commandant of Chelmno, although it appears that Schwarzenbach was something of a mystery. He was never seen around the camp. There are no extant descriptions of him. None of his victims – those that lived anyway – have come forward to tell us anything about him. His job description – according to Bothmann’s papers – is more than a little vague. He was a scientist, he was some kind of pain expert, but that’s about it. The rest is mystery.’ Spiers paused for a minute and turned to look at Schwarzenbach. He returned to his desk and sat down, looking suddenly like a minor bureaucrat in a vast and labyrinthine organization. An expression of puzzlement crossed his face and he stared at the cigar in his fingers as if he were surprised to find it there.
‘Katzmann says that you are Schwarzenbach –’
‘Katzmann is talking nonsense –’
‘That’s what he says.’
‘And I deny it.’
Spiers shrugged. ‘Face facts, Lutzke. You could be Schwarzenbach. Okay, you’ve got documents that prove you’re Lutzke, but there are more damned forged papers in Germany than there are bank-notes.’
‘This is a serious accusation, Major –’
‘I know it is –’
‘And you will have to prove it.’
Spiers opened his desk and took out a revolver which he laid in front of him. ‘I could get you to confess, couldn’t I?’
‘You underestimate me.’ Schwarzenbach stared at the weapon. He realized how simple it would be for Spiers to take it up, aim it, and fire. Who would say that he hadn’t killed in self-defence?
‘But I don’t believe in threats, Lutzke. There are other ways.’
Schwarzenbach couldn’t take his eyes from the gun. ‘You are doomed to disappointment, Major. You can never prove something that is untrue.’
‘It’s been done before.’ Spiers put out his cigar. ‘Someday, sometime, you’ll slip up. Or else I’ll hear a whisper. Perhaps somebody will come forward and brin
g me the evidence I need to put you away. You’ll never be safe, Lutzke.’
Schwarzenbach listened: but it was nonsense, empty nonsense. He doubted if Katzmann had talked and he knew for certain that if Spiers had anything more substantial than his own suspicions then he would have been arrested there and then. But Spiers was as unsubtle as Eberhard: it was an obvious strategy to say that Katzmann had talked – and then to claim that Katzmann had told them that he was Schwarzenbach. He saw in a flash the nature of the game that they were playing: there was a file on Schwarzenbach, a thin and useless file, and for reasons known only to their tortuous, clerical mentalities, they were desperately keen to close that file. And who fitted the role better than Lutzke – a Berlin doctor with a past that was suspiciously spotless?
‘You’ve got a wonderful imagination, Major.’
‘I’ll get you in the end, Lutzke. Rest assured of that.’
‘You are welcome to your zealous fantasies.’ Schwarzenbach stood up: the interview was at an end, and he was free to leave. Spiers had nothing on which to hold him.
Spiers watched him move towards the door. ‘Remember this, Lutzke. Somebody knows about you. And sometime he’s going to come forward and open his mouth and blow everything he knows about you. I’ll wait for that to happen. I’m a patient man.’
Schwarzenbach closed the door and went outside. A desk sergeant was sleeping in the lobby, head propped against his hands. Schwarzenbach passed him quietly. The night air was fresh and clean and as he stepped out of the building into the courtyard he felt suddenly dizzy. He stood for a moment against the wall and when the feeling had left him he continued to walk. The streets around him were silent, bare, unyielding, as if the recent bombardment of bombs and shells had stripped them of their secrets. As he walked he realized that he could not be touched now: there was nothing, there was no evidence that could be brought against him.
But in his sense of jubilation he had forgotten the Jew: and it was only later, when he was climbing into bed, that it dawned on him Grunwald was the man Spiers wanted so desperately to meet. Grunwald was the only man who could send him on the short walk to the gallows.
12
Once – he had forgotten the year – he met Frau Gerstein on the street near the Gabrielen-Platz in Munich. She was trying to cross against the busy traffic, standing on the edge of the pavement, turning her head this way and that. He touched her elbow and she turned, trembling slightly, as if he had disturbed her in the middle of a dream. She looked at him absently, without recognition. She turned away, an expression of contempt on her face, like a spinster accosted by a drunk. She moved forward through the traffic, and reached the opposite side of the street without looking back. Puzzled, offended, he remained where he was, watching as she disappeared in the crowd. Why had Frau Gerstein – whom he had known for some years – why had she ignored him?
Later in his apartment he mentioned the incident to Martha.
Martha said, ‘Frau Gerstein’s husband has forbidden her to speak to Jews.’
Grunwald looked from the window of their front room down into the street. It amazed him that people could be so narrow-minded. They had known the Gersteins for years. Hans was a salesman who travelled up and down the country with a pigskin suitcase.
‘Does it surprise you?’ Martha asked.
Grunwald didn’t answer: there was a sense of puzzlement, but beyond that nothing. He turned to look at his wife and saw in her expression an appeal to his own awareness of what was happening in Germany.
‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t surprise me at all.’
Grunwald shrugged: ‘Does it matter if Frau Gerstein and her husband won’t speak to us? Who are they anyway?’ He realized his voice was rising in cold anger – and yet he knew that he was only trying to justify his own attitudes.
‘Who are they?’ Martha asked, looking at him in surprise. ‘They’re Germans. They’re ordinary, everyday Germans.’
‘They’re bigots,’ he replied. ‘Narrow-minded …’
His voice trailed off. Martha had gone into the kitchen. He could hear the sound of running water in the sink. He felt furious with himself: he clenched his fists and went into the kitchen. She turned to him and smiled.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said. ‘Perhaps they aren’t really typical.’
He relaxed all at once. He put his arm around her shoulders and saw – but did not recognize – the expression of anguish in her eyes.
He moved blindly towards the Westkreuz station. Of all the things he might have remembered why had he selected so trivial an incident? Frau Gerstein was a meaningless figure from the past. Why remember, with such frightening clarity, an unimportant affair, an incident that – in the light of subsequent events – was insignificant? Did it seem to him now that the meeting on the Gabrielen-Platz contained the infinitesimally small seeds of genocide: the blank silence, the unacknowledged greeting, the face turned silently away? He recalled Frau Gerstein’s expression, almost as if she were standing in front of him now and the intervening years had never happened, and he thought he recognized in it the reflected looks of everyone who had ever contributed to the lunacy of the final solution. And if he looked in a mirror now, if he looked in a mirror at his own face, could he justifiably claim that the expression he saw there was entirely different from that of Frau Gerstein? He felt a brief compassion: yes, yes, it was easy to understand, it was simple to conclude that what had driven Frau Gerstein – fear, fear of her husband, fear of being seen associating with Jews – had driven him also, shunted him relentlessly into acts of such monstrosity that he was no better than Frau Gerstein or her husband, or Obersturmführer Mayer, or Hauptsturmführer Schwarzenbach, or the bloody minions who had carted them first to Mauthausen and then to Chelmno in murderous transports, he was no better than any of them and the guilt that lay across the wreckage of the Reich was as much his to share as it was anyone’s, because what he had done had been prompted entirely by the worst fear of all – of dying. If he had chosen instead to die, if that had been his way, if he had closed his eyes for the phenol injection in the heart or stepped naked into the gas chamber, now he would be one of the uncounted dead. But he had chosen differently, conscious for the first time in his life of the sheer necessity to exist.
When the door had slammed shut behind him in Schwarzenbach’s hut in Chelmno he knew that he did not have whatever extremes of courage it took to sacrifice himself.
There was a great deal of activity around the Westkreuz station. Trucks full of workers were preparing to continue the task of clearing Berlin of its rubble. Men in shabby overalls sat hunched together in open lorries, soldiers milled around supervising the loading, drivers smoked cigarettes and stamped their feet against the cold of the morning. Grunwald stood for a time watching them, conscious of their sense of impending purpose, a tangible thing that seemed to rise from them collectively like the fumes of smoke from their cigarettes. He felt unwell. Sensations of dizziness pierced him and he moved away slowly from the gathering of trucks to sit down amongst a pile of stones that had once formed the wall of a courtyard. For some days now he had been sleeping in different places, moving from one bombsite to another, from one flooded cellar to the next, like someone deliberately trying to obliterate the tracks of his existence. And yet this was futile: no matter how hard he tried he was unable to shift the feeling that life, like a hunted animal, left its own scent behind.
After some minutes the trucks began to move away. They swayed from side to side as they shuttled forward, scraps of tattered canvas billowing like the sails of ships. Grunwald watched them go and then he rose. From Westkreuz he made his way to the Kurfürstendamm, losing himself in the endless drift of people that moved along in listless droves. What were they living for – the grey faces, the eyes tired of war and conquest? They depressed him: he found himself turning his face away from them, as a squeamish person might from the sight of blood. In his imagination they ceased to exist as separate en
tities, as individuals with regrets and grievances, they merged and fused into one indistinguishable whole. He stopped in a doorway. There was a tight ache in the centre of his chest under the rib-cage: heart? Lungs? He put his hand to the area of pain.
‘What are you doing here?’
He turned round quickly when he heard the voice. The woman was in her thirties: she wore a beret on her head and her face was covered with cheap make-up. She looked old and used and unhappy, as if one morning she had woken to find that her youth had dissolved overnight. In the palm of her hand she held a key-ring that rattled faintly.
‘Sheltering,’ Grunwald said.
‘It isn’t raining,’ she answered.
‘There’s no law against standing here, is there?’ he asked.
‘You look filthy,’ she said. Her eyes, funereal blue, were cracked with tiny lines of blood.
‘I can’t help how I look.’ He turned away from her. The last thing he wanted was a conversation with a whore.
‘Have you got any money?’
‘Not enough for you,’ he said.
‘Suit yourself.’ She stood beside him, staring silently into the street, smiling absently from time to time at men who drifted past. After some minutes she said, ‘See what happens because you’re standing here? Nobody’s interested in me. You put them off.’
Grunwald stared at her. She was badly dressed: a cheap fur, looking as if it had never been part of any living animal, was hung around her shoulders; her black skirt was stained with cigarette ash; the lipstick had been drawn carelessly across her mouth and her lower teeth were tinted with a light red stain.
‘Got a match?’
‘I don’t smoke,’ he said.
‘Shit.’ She had taken a pack of American cigarettes from her bag. She held them a moment despairingly and then returned them to the bag. ‘You could do with a bath. Really. Haven’t you got anywhere to go?’
‘I move around,’ Grunwald said.
‘We all move around these days – but don’t you have a regular place to sleep?’
Death’s Head Page 12
