by Greg Iles
The rope took Colin Munro’s arm with it. His hand went under the wheel and snapped with a louder crack than the wooden handle had made. Roller and cylinder skidded down the last ten feet, dragging the flailing commando behind it.
Just before it struck the crossarm, the wheel jerked to a stop. Colin Munro did not. His body was flung up over the pulley and onto the crossarm, closing a circuit between the live wire and the earth.
From two hundred feet up the hill, Ian McShane saw a bright yellow flash with a sizzling blue core. Then he saw the distant lights of Totenhausen dim once, twice . . . and come back on.
McShane “burned” the pole in his haste to get to the ground. Creosote and splinters raked his arms and face as he slid earthward. When his boots hit the snow, he raced down the hill, leaving Cochrane and Lewis to tie off the rope holding the final cylinder in place.
At the foot of the next pylon, McShane found his friend’s body. Munro was lying on his stomach. His right hand was mangled, the arm torn and broken, and his tattered trouser legs were soaked in blood. The air smelled of ozone, as if a bolt of lightning had struck here. Munro himself smelled of burnt hair and cooked flesh. McShane dropped to his knees and felt for a carotid pulse, knowing it was useless.
He crouched there thinking until Cochrane and Lewis appeared.
“What the hell happened, Ian?” Alick asked breathlessly.
“Damn damn damn!” McShane cursed. “The auxiliaries energized. Shocked me blind. I accidentally jerked out one of the pins. My rubber gloves must have been dirty, and let the current bleed up to my arm. The cylinder got away, but Colin jumped out onto it. By God, he stopped the bloody thing.”
McShane stood and peered into the darkness high above them. “That looks like what’s left of a toggle rope up there. Colin managed to foul the wheel with it.”
“Damn me,” muttered Cochrane, looking closer at Munro’s body.
“He grounded himself on the pole,” said McShane. “He was dead before he hit the ground.”
“What the hell happened to his foot?” asked Lewis.
Munro’s right foot was bare and split open at the ankle, as if it had burst from within.
“The current must have come out there,” McShane said. “Blew his damn boot off. Either I didna catch the full current, or it must have traveled down an arm and a leg on the same side. Missed my vitals. Colin wasn’t so lucky.”
“No,” Cochrane murmured. “But he saved the mission, Ian. He saved us.”
“That he did, Alick.” McShane waited until he knew his voice was steady. “But we’ve still got two cylinders to hang. The one back there and the one over our heads.”
“What about the Germans?” asked Lewis. “I saw the lights flicker down below.”
McShane walked over to the nearest support pole and jammed one of his spikes into the wood. “Either they noticed or they didn’t. If they come, it’s a fight we’ll be givin’ them. If not, we’ll finish the job. Give me your rope.”
Lewis handed over a long coil.
“I’m going to cut Colin’s toggle rope free. Then we’ll use this rope to tow the cylinder back up and pin it beside the others.”
Alick Cochrane stared. It was something to witness the kind of determination that could block out a dead comrade and push on with an impossible mission. But he knew his friend wasn’t thinking clearly. “Ian,” he said gently, “if we try to tow the thing, we’ll be electrocuted ourselves.”
“I dinna think the auxiliary wires are live anymore,” McShane said. “Whatever shorted the main lines was temporary, because Colin shorted the auxiliaries and the lights are back on below.”
Cochrane considered this. “Colin’s body may only have faulted the backups for a second, Ian. They could still be live.”
“Well then . . . I’ll just jump clear out onto the cylinder, like Colin did, and pin the bastard right where it is. I’ll use something easily breakable, like a heavy twig. The momentum of the other cylinders will knock it free when the time comes.”
Cochrane began scouring the snow for a suitable stick.
“What about Colin?” Lewis asked. “You want me to bury him while you’re up there?”
McShane had already driven both spikes into the pole and started climbing, but he stopped and looked down, finding Lewis’s eye. “By God, if we can break our backs to haul gas cylinders, John, we can haul Colin to the beach. He’ll be buried in Scotland or I’ll die gettin’ him there.”
Cochrane handed two twigs up to McShane. “It’s sixteen miles to the beach, Ian.”
The big Highlander’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’ve no time to waste, have we?”
26
Sergeant Gunther Sturm strode with great satisfaction through Totenhausen Camp. It was a fine morning with fine prospects. The arrogant bastard who had been riding him since September had finally made a mistake. He had taken a fancy to the bald Jewess who strutted around the camp like a princess. And that made him vulnerable.
Schörner had been tolerable up until the night Himmler came, allowing Sturm to run the camp as he had before the major’s arrival from Russia. There had been some misunderstandings in the beginning, but once Sturm realized it was a matter of principle with Schörner not to profit from the prisoners’ bad luck—and not simply a matter of greasing his palm—Sturm had kept a low profile and limited his looting to easily concealable and highly profitable items. Like diamonds. The two men had never gotten along personally, but who ever said officers and noncoms had to be friends?
It was all the old Dutch Jew’s fault. He had shoved the diamonds into Sturm’s hand just as Schörner blundered up to see it. And of course the major had reminded him of their previous misunderstanding, holding his past mistakes over his head just like every officer loved to do. The bastard wanted Sturm to know he could be cashiered for looting anytime Schörner chose.
But the major had made his own mistake now. Sleeping with a Jewess! Raping one in the heat of action was one thing, but this was something different. Three times already Sturm’s men had reported seeing the Jansen woman leaving Schörner’s quarters late at night. The only question had been how best to respond.
The normal procedure would be to report Schörner to the Herr Doktor. But denouncing an officer for violations of the Nuremberg racial laws was a tricky business when the man you had to denounce him to was guilty of the same crime, and to an even more disgusting degree. Sturm had considered going outside the chain of command and reporting Schörner to a higher SS authority—perhaps Colonel Beck at Peenemünde—but breaking the chain of command was practically a crime in itself. On top of that, Schörner came from a wealthy family. There was no telling how much influence his father might be able to bring to bear in Berlin—not to mention his stinking Knight’s Cross.
No, there was only one way. Private satisfaction. And Sturm had come up with the perfect answer. He would provoke the Jansen woman into some desperate act. Then he would be fully within his rights when he shot her. Brandt would have no complaint, and Schörner could do nothing without admitting he’d become romantically entangled with a Jewess. It rankled Sturm to no end that he had to plan this way. At any other camp he could simply walk up to Rachel Jansen and shoot her. Here, he had to have a good reason to damage one of Brandt’s guinea pigs. And that was where the diamonds came in. It would cost him the stones to get the bitch, but it would be worth it.
The spot Sturm had chosen for his ambush was a narrow alley between the SS barracks and the dog kennels. He had picked his day and his hour well too. Brandt was gone to Ravensbrück to witness some experiment or other, and Schörner was in Dornow, questioning the locals about the missing sergeant, Willi Gauss. Finally, it was the time of morning when the Jansen woman usually walked a circuit of the camp with the Block Leader, Hagan. Sturm’s plan for luring the Jewess to the alley was simple. All he needed was one of her children.
He chose the son.
“You’re digging your own grave,” Frau Hagan said. “Nothing go
od can come of it.”
Rachel kept her eyes fixed on the snow as she walked. “My children eat well. They are gaining weight.”
“But for how long? How long will Schörner stay interested? You don’t know how their minds work. Schörner was lonely enough to come to you, but soon he’ll hate himself for it. You’ll be the one to pay for his disgust with himself.”
“I have no choice. He can protect Jan and Hannah.”
“You believe that? If Brandt selected Jan tomorrow, what could Schörner do? If he disobeyed an order, Brandt would put him in front of a firing squad. He just tells you what will keep him between your legs. Like all men.”
“He chose me, remember? Let’s don’t talk about it.”
Frau Hagan raised her hands in a gesture of futility. “Always you listen to my advice. But not about this. You think I’ve never seen this before? How do you think I’ve survived so long?”
Rachel looked up at her. “I would like to know that.”
“Not by doing what you are doing. Or what the shoemaker does. Listen, in 1940 I and seven hundred other Poles from Tarnow were transported to Oscweicim—what the Germans call Auschwitz—in Upper Silesia. We built that camp. Digging all the time, no food or water. Only the strong survived.
“It was there that I became a Communist. We built a synthetic rubber plant at Buna. They called it Auschwitz Three, but that place was Hell on earth. There was a man there named Spivack, a Pole from Warsaw. Small, but wiry like a monkey. I worked with him, hauling bricks and cement. After a week, I knew he was the toughest man I had ever seen. At the end of the day when the big oxes had fallen down, he was still working. It was his mind that was tough, you see? He was a Communist. Nothing but death could beat him.”
Frau Hagan waggled a finger at Rachel. “It was the German Communists who tried to stop Hitler in the beginning. But the German people were afraid of Marxism. Even the German Jews. Cowards. Afraid to let go of their bourgeois comforts.” The big Pole laughed bitterly. “Where did all their comforts get them, eh? Up the chimney, that’s where.”
“What happened to Spivack?”
Frau Hagan shrugged. “I was transferred here. But I’ll tell you this. He didn’t let the SS treat him like a dog. Even some of those bastards respected him, all the punishment he could take. That’s what I’ve done, and I’m still here. Still alive. But you, Dutch girl, you’re riding on the back of a tiger.”
“Not everyone is as strong as you,” Rachel said. “I judge no one here.”
“Rachel! Hagan! Hurry!”
An older woman raced into the alley between the hospital and the E-Block. Frau Hagan shouted for her to slow down, but she ran right up to them and grabbed Rachel’s shift.
“They took Jan! Hurry!”
A sudden heat suffused Rachel’s skin. “What?”
“One of Sturm’s dog handlers came for your boy! There was nothing I could do!”
Rachel grabbed the woman’s arm. “Hannah?”
“She’s safe.”
“Where is the boy now?” Frau Hagan asked.
“They took him to the kennels.”
Rachel started to run, but Frau Hagan grabbed her upper arm. “Walk,” she commanded. “Running will get you a bullet in the back.”
“I must go to him!”
“You must also be careful. Sturm has planned this well, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brandt is out of town, and Schörner left for Dornow this morning. Too much coincidence.”
“Schörner is away?” Rachel felt suddenly faint. “My God, what can I do?”
“I don’t know.” Frau Hagan set her jaw in a grim line. “But I will come with you.”
When Rachel rounded the corner of the SS barracks, she saw Jan standing with his back to the dog kennels. Sergeant Sturm was squatting in front of him, his broad face pressed close to the little boy’s. Jan was crying. An SS private stood to the side, his submachine gun pointed leisurely at the three-year-old.
Rachel screamed and raced toward her son, but Sturm stood up and caught her in a bear hug.
“Please!” Rachel shrieked, kicking wildly. “Let him go!”
“Moeder! Moeder!” Jan whimpered.
Frau Hagan scooped up the boy and started to run, but the SS private backed her against the barracks with his submachine gun. Sturm lifted Rachel off her feet, dropped her beside the kennels.
“Against the wall!” he ordered. “Face the wall!”
Rachel craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Jan. Frau Hagan was holding the boy tightly against her bosom.
Sturm slapped Rachel’s face. “Bend over and grab your ankles, whore!”
“I will! Please don’t hurt my son!”
“I’ll do whatever I like. Now, bend over! Let’s have those diamonds.”
“Jan! Shut your eyes!”
Frau Hagan covered the boy’s eyes as Rachel bent over.
The Kubelwagen carrying Major Wolfgang Schörner barreled through the front gate of Totenhausen without slowing and screeched to a stop in front of the administration building. Schörner had learned nothing about Technical Sergeant Gauss in Dornow, but a little extra effort had paid off. He’d decided to question the occupants of some of the outlying houses between Dornow and Totenhausen, and the fourth house he came to belonged to Sybille Kleist. Schörner had scarcely gotten Sergeant Gauss’s name out of his mouth when Frau Kleist broke down completely.
“Something’s happened to Willi!” she sobbed. “I knew it! I wanted to come forward, Sturmbannführer, but . . . I swear to you, twice this morning I started to come to the camp to report, but I couldn’t.”
“Why not, madam?” Schörner had asked.
Frau Kleist attempted some semblance of haughty dignity. “I am a married woman, Sturmbannführer. Willi—Sergeant Gauss—assists me with certain heavy work around the house. There is nothing improper, of course, but if my husband ever misconstrued—”
“My inquiries will be conducted with the utmost discretion,” Schörner said with forced patience.
“Sergeant Gauss was here last night. Just after he left, I thought I heard something. I know I did. I looked outside but saw nothing. God help me, Sturmbannführer, but the more I’ve thought about it, the more I think the noise sounded like gunshots. Soft but very fast.”
At that point Schörner had read Sybille Kleist the riot act. Ten minutes later he ordered all search parties to concentrate in the area of the Kleist residence, then left for Totenhausen to summon Sergeant Sturm with his best dogs.
As he climbed out of the Kubelwagen, Schörner saw a wireless operator emerge from the HQ building. “Rottenführer!” he shouted. “Where is Hauptscharführer Sturm?”
“I’m not sure, Sturmbannführer. I heard the dogs barking a moment ago. Perhaps he is exercising them.”
Schörner entered the alley between the dog kennels and the SS barracks just as Sergeant Sturm hiked up Rachel’s shift and bunched it around her waist. Marching stiffly up the alley, he saw Sturm pull down her underpants, brace his left hand in the small of her back and reach between her thighs with his right.
“Achtung, Hauptscharführer!”
Sergeant Sturm snapped straight and gaped at the advancing major. Clean-shaven and dressed in his field gray Waffen-SS uniform, the eyepatch tied across his face like a wound badge, Schörner personified the nightmare of every SS noncom.
“ACHTUNG!”
Sturm squared his shoulders and thumbed the seams of his trousers. Rachel pulled up her underwear and ran to Frau Hagan.
“Exactly what is going on here?” Schörner asked.
Sturm regrouped rapidly. “I am conducting a search, Sturmbannführer.”
“It looked to me like you were conducting a rape.”
“Sturmbannführer, this woman is concealing contraband on her person.”
Schörner’s eyes flicked to Rachel. “What kind of contraband? Food? Explosives?”
“No, Sturmbannführer. Diamonds. The
very gems you instructed me to get rid of some nights ago.”
Schörner pursed his lips, surprised by this response. “I see. And how do you know she has these diamonds?”
“I have reliable information, Sturmbannführer. A report from another prisoner.”
Rachel felt her stomach twist. What fellow prisoner would inform on her to the SS?
“And where is she hiding these gems?”
Sturm felt a surge of confidence; for once the facts were in his favor. “She hides them in her private parts, Sturmbannführer, like all these shameless Jewish cows.”
Schörner was silent for a moment. “If that is the information you received, Hauptscharführer, you should have informed me. I would have instructed a civilian nurse to search the prisoner. Your conduct was highly irregular, and quite unbecoming a German soldier.”
Sturm reddened. He would not be humiliated in front of a Jew. “I know my duty, Sturmbannführer! If this prisoner is breaking the rules, I will search her wherever I find her.”
“Your duty, Hauptscharführer?” said Schörner, raising his eyebrows. “While you were molesting women in alleyways, I was out doing your duty for you. Not only have I discovered that our missing sergeant was carrying on an illicit affair with the wife of a hero of the Kriegsmarine, but also that he was dallying in bed with this woman just last night. The woman reported hearing gunshots soon after he left. I hurried back here to enlist the help of you and your dogs to search the area. And what do I find? You, acting in an even more disgusting manner than Gauss!”
The news about Gauss surprised Sturm, but he did not intend to let Rachel escape. “Sturmbannführer, I will personally take the dogs and search the area. But first we must relieve this prisoner of the contraband.”
Schörner glanced around the alley. The SS private was making a point of looking the other way. Sturm’s strategy of isolation had backfired on him. “I suggest, Hauptscharführer,” Schörner said icily, “that you gather your dogs and stop wasting my time. This prisoner is known to me. I doubt seriously whether she possesses any diamonds, or that she would hide them in the disgusting manner you describe. Apparently your mind works in the same direction as Sergeant Gauss’s.”
