Wilson looked out. The pine trees soared all around him. The old walled town of Kahla could not be seen from here, but the train lines branched off into a tunnel that led inside the forested hills.
In there lay his destiny.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE After spending a nightmarish week in the Harz Mountains, supervising the resettlement of Wilson and his flying saucer project, Ernst returned to Berlin to do the same for the ungrateful and increasingly arrogant Flugkapitän Rudolph Schriever, though in this case the move was to Prague, Czechoslovakia.
Having settled Schriever, his two trusted engineers, and other assistants and slave workers in the research complex just outside the city, where the naive scientist had been looking forward to testing the flying saucer before the Soviets advanced too far, Ernst returned to a bomb-shattered Berlin. He felt older than ever and was no longer able to sleep at night. When he made his report to Heinrich Himmler, the Reichsführer, who had once seemed so icily calm, now was oddly distracted. His eyes behind the glittering pince-nez roamed restlessly left and right.
‘Four days ago,’ he said, before Ernst could utter a word, ‘the Russians took Minsk and captured one hundred thousand German soldiers. One hundred thousand,’ he repeated slowly, like a man in a trance. ‘It is something to think about.’
Embarrassed, Ernst didn’t know what to say, so he simply remained standing in front of Himmler’s desk, looking down at his chubby, pale face and surprised by the change in him. Eventually, as if remembering what Ernst was there for, the Reichsführer looked up and said, in a less distracted manner ‘So, you have completed the resettlements. I myself have recently visited the new site at Prague, but haven’t been to Nordhausen since last there with you. What’s it like there?’
‘Very good, Reichsf ührer. The Nordhausen Central Works are, as you know, hidden deeply in the Kohnstein Mountain. As of this moment, more than three thousand prisoners from the concentration camp at nearby Buchenwald are being used as slave labour and housed in a new subcamp named Dora. It’s anticipated that by October this year, the whole of the Dora subcamp will have been transferred underground and also increased to a total of over thirteen thousand slave workers. Another camp for the prisoners is being set up in a mountain valley to the south, less than a kilometre from the entrance to
Nordhausen’s tunnel B.’
‘The prisoners are disciplined and work well?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ernst said, thinking of how the unfortunates were driven
to work with whips, worked exceptionally long, exhausting hours, and were not allowed to rest for a single moment. ‘How are they disciplined?’ Himmler asked, for such matters always interested the bureaucrat in him.
‘Naturally they’re supervised at all times by SS guards armed with pistols, automatic weapons, bullwhips, and sticks. When not working, many of them are shut up in the tunnels of the underground complex. When they refuse to work on the V-1 or V-2, they’re shot or hanged in full sight of the other prisoners, either in the underground corridors or in the roll-call ground of the open camps.’
‘Excellent, Captain. It’s always best to carry out disciplinary measures in full view of the other prisoners. It’s always good to remind them of the consequences should they, too, commit an infraction.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ernst said. The nightmares generated by his week in Nordhausen and the other underground factories in the area, including the one at Kahla, were the cause of his inability to sleep.
‘And the underground factories are definitely invisible from the air?’
‘Yes, Reichsführer.’
‘Good.’ Himmler offered a smile that seemed to. be turned inward upon himself. ‘As you know,’ he said, clasping his hands under his double chin and returning to his former distracted manner, ‘as early as 1941, I personally set up an SS proving ground near Blizna, a small village located by the confluence of the rivers Vistula and San, in southern Poland.’
‘Yes, sir, I remember it well.’
Himmler nodded again and smiled in a dreamy manner.
‘Toward the end of 1941,’ he continued, ‘after the villagers had all been evicted, Soviet prisoners-of-war were sent there and killed off almost to a man by hard labour and starvation, in order to get the proving ground completed. When they had all died off, we replaced them with political prisoners and eventually built a concentration camp for them. Since then we’ve razed the original village to the ground, camouflaged the whole area, and built a new, mock village over the proving ground, to fool Allied aircraft and their photographers. Cardboard cottages and outbuildings were sent there from Germany; dummies of men, women, and children stand around; and even flowers and other shrubbery have been planted. From the air, the illusion of an inhabited village is complete – and I like to think of it, Captain,’ he continued, looking up at Ernst and smiling frostily, ‘as the prototype for all the camouflaged, underground factories built since then... My personal creation.’
‘And an excellent one, Reichführer.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’
Ernst, feeling weary and slightly unreal, did not think it wise to mention the fact that according to recent intelligence reports, Polish partisans were already moving in on Blizna, with a view to capturing it and holding it until the Soviet army arrived, as it surely would any day now.
‘And a similar situation exists at the Schriever complex near Prague, in Bohemia?’
‘Yes, Reichsführer. Exactly the same. And Flugkapitän Schriever is hoping to test his flying saucer later this year.’
‘Good. We need all the secret weapons we can get, if we’re to defeat the Allied advance. What is the American, Wilson, doing in this respect?’
‘Not much, I'm afraid,’ Ernst lied, knowing that in fact Wilson was already planning to test his small Feuerball in the guise of an antiradar weapon and, if successful, then implement the same ideas in the larger flying saucer he was intending to construct in Neuschwabenland. ‘He’s making various small contributions to the V-2 program but has otherwise turned out to be disappointing.’
‘If the Soviets or Americans even get close, I want that man shot.’
‘He will be, Reichsführer. In the meantime, I agree that it’s wise to pin most of our hopes on the V-2 rocket program and, possibly, Flugkapitän Schriever’s flying saucer.’
Himmler nodded, accepting Ernst’s compliment, then unclasped his hands. ‘So, Captain,’ he said, ‘when are you returning to Nordhausen?’
‘As soon as I see my wife and children, Reichsführer.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Himmler said, ‘Now living with your mother-in-law, I believe.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I do not approve of the separation, but am pleased to note that you did, at least, do something about her lover. I assume he’s now one of the hundred thousand German soldiers captured at Minsk. It’s all he deserves.’
‘Yes, sir. I agree.’
Himmler stood up behind his desk and stared sombrely at Ernst. ‘These are terrible times,’ he said, ‘and we must all remain courageous. I wish to thank you, Captain, for all you’ve done so far. Believe me, I’m proud of you.’ Then, to Ernst's amazement, he offered his hand. Ernst shook it, found it oddly clammy, then saluted and walked out.
Berlin was barely recognizable, with once-familiar areas now razed to the ground, blackened ruins and piles of rubble as far as the eye could see, and a constant smell of fire in the air, instead of the summer flowers. There were few soldiers about, only old men, women, and children, a good many of them crippled, and Ernst became even more depressed and longed for escape.
He went straight to Brigette’s apartment, wanting to have her one last time. Relieved to find the building still standing, though the one beside it had been bombed, he hurried eagerly up the stairs to ring her door bell. However, before he could do so, the door opened, a Luftwaffe flight lieutenant stared at him in surprise, then grinned sheepishly, finished buttoning up his jacket, called ‘Auf Wiedersehen.!’ back over his
shoulder and left by the stairs. Brigette appeared in the doorway, her red hair dishevelled, a cigarette between her lips, still wearing her dressing gown. She was just about to close the door when she saw Ernst.
Startled, she froze for a moment, then grinned, stepped back, and waved him inside, saying ‘Ah! My pretty Kapitän! Come inside and be warmed!' A little shaken, Ernst stepped in, pushed the door closed behind him, and just stood there, feeling foolish, until Brigette pressed her lips to his and ran her hand down his spine. ’Did you bring me a present, my beauty, from wherever you've been?’
‘Not this time,’ Ernst said. She stepped away from him and pouted, blowing smoke in his face. ‘Nothing? Not one little thing? Is this how you treat the girls who suffer at home?’
Ernst was not amused by her flippancy, assuming she was trying to make light of the man who had just left.
‘You don’t seem to be suffering too much,’ he said. ‘You still have your boyfriends, I see.’
She grinned, adjusted the dressing gown to cover her breasts, then waved her hand in an airy manner, indicating the once-elegant apartment. ‘Not suffering?’ she asked in a theatrical, manner. ‘But darling, just look at this place. It’s not what it once was.’ Which certainly seemed true enough; the furniture faded and dusty, the drinks cabinet bare. ‘No Russian vodka,’ she continued. ‘No cognac from France. No more pasta and salami from Italy. No more dairy products from Denmark. No more jewellery and furs from handsome officers flushed with victory and pride. Only angst, my darling, and the air raids and the long queues for food. So why not the odd boyfriend?’
Her mockery angered him, but he tried not to show it, as he still hoped to get into her bed before visiting Ingrid.
‘I suppose I’ve no reason to complain,’ he said. ‘It was just a shock, that's all.’
‘Why, darling? You’ve always known about my other men. You’ve always known that I like my little presents and can’t bear to be lonesome.’
He wanted to slap her face, but managed to restrain himself, because what she had said was perfectly true. Indeed, she had often teased him with talk about her other men, and in those days, when Berlin was rich and he a golden young conqueror, he had taken the teasing in good part. That he couldn’t do so now was a sign that things had changed radically. He was no longer a conqueror, she had visibly aged, and both the city and this faded, bare apartment reminded him of the forthcoming defeat. He felt that darkness descending...
‘So what are you doing here, Ernst?’ Brigette said, inhaling and exhaling cigarette smoke and turning away to take a seat on the worn sofa, where she crossed her long, still-elegant legs and swung one invitingly.
‘You know what I came for,’ he said, feeling a choke in his throat.
She smiled, then stubbed her cigarette out, and stretched both arms along the back of the sofa, thus forcing her breasts out. ‘But you didn’t bring me my little present, dear Ernst, and you know I expect that.’
‘I know you like your little presents, but I didn’t realize they were mandatory. I mean, I never thought of them as absolutely vital. It was my pleasure to give them.’
‘You gave them in return for pleasure.’
‘That’s beside the point.’
‘The point, dear, is that I never lend myself unless I’m offered a present.’
‘I didn’t know you were for sale.’
‘Yes, you did,’ she said calmly. ‘I charged more than a common whore would charge; it just wasn't money.’
‘Presents,’ Ernst said bitterly.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Some men, they can’t admit that they’re buying it, so one asks them for presents. Little presents. Expensive presents. Ones with high resale value.’
‘You’re a mercenary whore.’
‘No, Ernst, darling, I’m a survivor. I’ve learned not to depend on men for anything, so I take what I can from them. To save for a rainy day, darling – which means when Berlin falls.’
‘That’s the talk of a traitor.’
‘Are you going to report me, darling? After all, that’s what you often said you were: no more than a policeman.’
The remark humiliated him, reminding him of his failures, but the thought that he might not have her this last time made him desire her all the more and forced him swallow his pride.
‘I’m going away,’ he said, despising the plaintive tone in his voice. ‘I’m being posted away and don’t know what will happen after that. I just thought...’
‘One last time?’
‘Yes,’ he said, almost whispering. ‘For old times sake, at least.’
‘For old times sake,’ she echoed sardonically.
‘Yes,’ he said, stepping toward her. He stopped directly in front of the worn sofa and gazed down at her swinging leg. It was exposed up to the thigh and it made him suck his breath in; then, when he raised his gaze, he saw her breasts thrusting against the silk of the dressing gown, the skin above bare and marble-white. When he raised his gaze higher, he saw her sensual lips curved in a mocking smile.
‘So you’re going away,’ she said, ‘and leaving me to the tender mercies of the Allied troops or the Soviets – and still you want your little pleasure for old times sake. Well, my dear, a girl has to survive and, when the city falls, will need more than her fading looks. So since we’ve always had a particular relationship, let’s keep it that way... Which means that if I don’t get my present, you won’t have any fun.’
‘I’ve been away for weeks,’ he said, loathing the piteous tone in his voice and feeling his anger rising out of his humiliation. ‘I’ve been worked night and day. I didn’t have the opportunity to buy presents – not even for my wife and children, let alone you.’
‘You’re separated from your wife and children.’
‘I still see them – and will this evening.’
‘Well, perhaps they no longer expect presents, but I do, my dear.’
‘I don't have one, Brigette. For God’s sake, don’t be – ’
But she stopped him short by leaning forward on the sofa, taking hold of his wrist and turning it over to examine his watch.
‘A gold Rolex,’ she said.
He jerked his hand away. ‘If you think – ’
She leaned back on the sofa and stretched her arms along the back of it, simultaneously exposing her full breasts and swinging that long leg. ‘A gold Rolex is worth a lot,’ she said, smiling. ‘And I still want my present.’
Ernst exploded, hardly knowing what he was doing. He grabbed her by the collar, jerked her to her feet, slapped her face, and threw her back down. He saw the torn dressing gown, a bared breast, blood on her lips, then bent over and slapped her again and dragged her onto the floor. She cursed and clawed at him, tried to roll away but failed, and writhed beneath him when he straddled her body and ripped the dressing gown off her.
He didn't feel lust – only violent, blinding rage – but when the dressing gown was lying in shreds around her, he tried to force her legs open. She didn’t scream, but she cursed him loudly, trying to jerk her wrists from his hands, and when finally he let go to hold her legs apart, she frantically tried hitting him with her fists.
Surprised, he released her thighs and took hold of her wrists again. He jerked her hands away from his face and, still straddling her and breathing in spasms, looked at her as she stopped writhing beneath him and glared fiercely at him. When she stopped struggling, when her body became motionless, he released her hands and rolled off her, then stood up and straightened his jacket, feeling foolish and beaten.
‘The Soviets will know what to do with you,’ he said with as much contempt as he could muster, looking down at her, where she still lay on the floor, too careful to move. ‘Good luck, Brigette. You’ll need it.’
He made a point of not slamming the door in anger when he left for the last time... but her mocking laughter pursued him.
The lines for the tramcars to Wannsee had been blown up in an air raid, so he took a taxi through the darke
ning light of the early evening, trying not to look out at the crippled children and old people who were clambering over the piles of rubble or exploring the charred ruins, hoping to find something they could barter for money or food.
Yes, Berlin was unrecognizable, the gaunt remainder of a lost dream. He was glad when the worst ruins disappeared from view and were replaced with the relatively less devastated areas overlooking the Havel River. Not that there were no ruins here, but they were fewer and more spread out, and he was even more relieved to find his inlaws’ elegant old house still standing in its gardens overlooking the waters of the Wannsee. He asked the taxi driver to wait for him, then rang the doorbell.
Ingrid’s mother answered the door, looking shockingly aged. Her hair was now completely gray and the skin of her handsome face, though tight on her cheekbones, was webbed with lines of tension and possibly hunger.
She stared in a confused manner at Ernst, then, recognizing him, murmured a greeting and pulled him into her arms. When they embraced, he kissed her cheek, which seemed cold, then followed her into the house. She walked ahead of him, her body heavy and ungainly, saying over her shoulder ‘The children will be so glad to see you. How long has it been now?’
Noting that she hadn’t included Ingrid in her first comment, Ernst said, ‘About eighteen months. Maybe two years. I’m not sure. How have things been?’
‘Not so good,’ she said vaguely. ‘All the air raids... food shortages... the anxiety... Ingrid!’ she called out as she entered the living room. You have a visitor, dear!’
She stepped aside to let him enter, hugged him again impulsively as he passed her, whispered, ‘I think I’ll leave you two alone,’ then hurried away. Ernst stepped into the living room and saw Ingrid looking up from her armchair, an open newspaper lying across her lap, her face still exceptionally pretty, but drawn, as if sleep had eluded her.
‘Hello, Ingrid,’ he said, crossing the room, which was, he noted, still filled with excellent furniture, international bricabrac, and the fine paintings that her father had collected before he died.
INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1) Page 35
