Müller, who has been listening carefully as Dietrich translates Kokorin’s words, says, “The flight from freedom is a consequence of original sin.”
“Ah, original sin,” says Kokorin. “So we have a good Catholic here, a child of Saint Augustine.”
Dietrich translates.
“What do you know of Augustine?” Müller says, surprised.
“I have read him, of course. Do you think I have no education because I am a Communist? But what does Pastor Bonhoeffer say? Give us the Protestant position, Pastor Bonhoeffer.”
Payne Best is asleep, snoring lightly. Dietrich, who is weary to death of defending God, says nothing.
They receive a slice of bread for breakfast. A large bowl of soup at midday. More bread and marmalade in the evening. Sometimes butter or lard on the bread.
In the old days—that is how they refer to before prison—in the old days this would have seemed paltry, but now they feel as though they are feasting. The soup is actually edible, it has chunks of potato and carrots and now and then a piece of sausage. Beads of fat float in the broth.
“It’s because of the POWs,” Müller says. Müller has become quite talkative as time has passed and no harm has come to them. “They’re treating the POWs well. The Allies are the new gods, and the Nazis are trying to buy their way into heaven.”
Müller is whispering out his cell door to the prisoner on his right. Then he comes to Dietrich, who has been dozing on his cot, and shakes him awake.
“Guess who they brought in this morning,” he says. “General Oster.”
Oster. Dohnanyi’s boss in the Abwehr. So the circle is closed, Dietrich thinks, and they will have everything and everyone they want.
“I wonder,” he says as he sits up, “I wonder why my brother-in-law is not here.”
IN FACT, EVERYONE HAS LOST PATIENCE with Hans von Dohnanyi. Interrogation has yielded nothing, and besides that the prisoner is often out of his head. Nothing he says can be trusted anyway. There is no one to properly tend a seriously ill man, and his guards at Sachsenhausen complain because he is too weak to walk to the latrine or use a slop bucket.
So a word from Hitler, who still keeps a close eye on the world, yes, even knows when a prisoner is shitting his bed.
A word from Himmler, who still listens to the Führer when it suits him.
A man too weak to walk to the latrine cannot be expected to make his way to a gallows. The guards haul him out on his stretcher. He passes in and out of lucidity, sees the rope being knotted into a noose at one end and slung over a wooden beam at the other, then stands on the deck of his sailboat which skims the blue surface of the Havel.
They hoist him up and the rope burns the raw skin of his neck and then he is thrown from the deck into cold clear water.
APRIL 1, 1945. EASTER SUNDAY. They can hear the guns in the west. The Americans, the guards say. They tell the prisoners to be ready to move. That night the men whisper back and forth along the row of cells. We must be ready to make a break. No, the Americans will be here soon and set us free. No, you heard the guards they are taking us out of here they mean to shoot us in the woods no they’ll run with us until they can go no farther and then barter us no they’ll surrender anyway.
That afternoon they are led outside at gunpoint and loaded onto a canvas-covered truck. It is a monstrous vehicle with a strange wood-burning engine of a type used more and more in the end days. The prisoners get their first looks at one another. Everyone is shocked at how terrible the others look, but no one says anything. Payne Best proves to be a tall ungainly man. Thin. Kokorin is short, with peaked cheekbones. Also thin. Everyone is thin. They climb into the truck, which travels south at the speed of a bicycle. Bonhoeffer, Müller, Payne Best, Oster, and Kokorin are crammed so tightly in one corner that it finally becomes more comfortable to take turns sitting on one another’s lap.
“Why are they moving us?” Best wonders. “Surely they’re short on petrol, food, time. Especially time. Why bother with this?”
Oster says, “It must be an order from Berlin. Otherwise we’d have been shot back there. That’s what the contingency plans I’ve seen called for. But who can say what’s going on? Who can tell what Hitler is thinking?”
“I believe,” says Kokorin, “it will come clear when we arrive at our destination, and not before.” He shrugs and smiles with the insouciant air of a Frenchman at a sidewalk café. And the braveness of the gesture moves Dietrich, who reaches inside his coat for a small treasure he has been hoarding ever since Tegel—a grimy handkerchief wrapped around half a dozen cigarettes. He passes them around to cries of appreciation. But of course others in the truck have turned to look, and so the six cigarettes are passed from one to another until thirty men have shared.
They travel through the night, sleep sitting up. Before dawn the truck pulls to the side of the berm at a crossroads. A lone soldier stands watch outside while the driver naps in the cab. The guard is himself tempted to sleep where he stands, leaning against the truck’s rear bumper. But he is jolted into wakefulness by the sound of approaching engines. He stands to attention and squints into the gray dawn, one hand on his rifle and the other clutching a white handkerchief in his pocket, just in case.
But the car which emerges from the fog is a Daimler, and behind it a truck like the one he is guarding. He stuffs the handkerchief back into his pocket and salutes the man in SS uniform who climbs from behind the wheel of the car.
“Heil Hitler!” The guard’s boyish voice—for he is only eighteen—rings off the thick wall of trees beside the road.
“Stand down,” the SS officer says quietly. He nods at the truck. “Prisoners? Order them to get out.”
The boy does as he is told, and the prisoners rouse themselves, climb gingerly from the back of the truck, testing their legs. Oster slips on the bumper, which is wet with dew, and falls to the ground. Dietrich helps him to his feet, then straightens to find himself face to face with Alois Bauer. Bauer gives no sign of recognition and looks away.
He says, as though addressing the trees, “I have come with a truck bound for KZ Flossenburg. The following men will get on board please.”
A low murmur has begun. The concentration camp at Flossenburg does not have a good reputation among the POWs, indeed has been known as a deathtrap for years, especially among the Russians. Kokorin shudders with fear. So does Dietrich; he has his own foreboding about what sort of destination Flossenburg will be. It is the most isolated of the camps, high in the Fichtelgebirge mountains near what was once the Czech border.
Bauer has taken a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. A list, which he scans for a moment. Then he begins to read names. Looks up now and then to make sure that each time a name is read, a man leaves the group and trudges slowly to the waiting truck, whose idling engine gives off puffs of steam.
“Hans Oster,” Bauer says.
Oster walks away with a gray face and disappears into the back of the truck.
“Josef Müller.”
Müller takes a deep breath, turns to shake hands with Best and Kokorin. He does not shake Dietrich’s hand, for he expects to see him momentarily. It is clear that the German prisoners are being separated from the POWs.
Bauer is studying the list. He hesitates. Looks up. Locks eyes with Dietrich. Then says, “That’s all. The rest of you back up on the truck.” He waves his arms and points so it is clear to those who do not speak German what he expects them to do.
Dietrich cannot move. Bauer stands beside him.
“Did you hear what I said? Back on that truck or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Dietrich glances at the truck bound for Flossenburg, which is already backing up, preparing to take the left fork in the road.
“Go on,” Bauer says.
Kokorin is stretching out a helping hand to pull Dietrich up. And after he scrambles on board, Dietrich is surprised to see that Bauer has returned to his car and is stripping off his SS uniform—hat, coat, pants. He stands for
a moment in his underwear, then opens a satchel and removes a pair of corduroy pants, and a blue shirt and tweed jacket. Puts them on. The uniform goes in the satchel, which is stowed in the boot of the car. Then Bauer walks to the truck carrying a small suitcase. He has not bothered to lower the back flap to hide what he has done. When he sees Dietrich watching, he gives a small wave and climbs into the cab. The engine, which the driver has been stoking with wood chips, shudders and starts, and the truck heads south once more.
FOR THE VILLAGERS OF SCHÖNBERG in the Bavarian Forest, the arrival of the truck was first a cause for fear. But as soon as it became known that the truck held Allied prisoners of war, people grew calm. Their corner of the Reich had seen little fighting; at the same time, everyone knew the war was lost. If the POWs had been sent to Schönberg to wait out the last days, then the people were safe. The Allies would not hurt their own. Nor, it was hoped, would they harm those who had been kind to them.
So it was that the prisoners found themselves lodged in the infirmary of a school. A large sunny room with white walls. After a time women from the village arrived with offerings of bread and cheese and potato soup. The infirmary beds had real mattresses with white sheets, and the filthy men were careful to shower before they touched them, though they had to put their dirty clothes back on. At last they stretched out and slept. The last thing Dietrich heard before falling asleep was Kokorin saying, “Heaven.”
They sit side by side on a sunny April morning on a large flat rock overlooking a Bavarian meadow sharing slices of apple and cheese.
Bauer is waving his arms expansively. “So you see, I have saved you. Set you apart, called you out from your fellow heroes and given you back to the people. But perhaps you don’t consider that salvation?” He looks slyly at Dietrich. “Perhaps you’d rather be a saint, and I’ve taken the chance away from you.”
Dietrich chews slowly. He says, “I once had a friend when I was student in New York. A Frenchman. He told me then he wanted to be a saint. And it’s likely, given what I knew of him, that living in France during these last years, he became one. But as for me, I’ve found that I’m unable to make anything of myself. Not saint, not a good man, or a bad man for that matter. I’ve failed in most everything I’ve tried to do.”
“A useless man to go with your useless God.” Bauer cocks his arm and throws an apple core down the hillside. He takes out a penknife and peels another apple. “On the other hand, look at what the Führer has done! The Führer is mortally wounded and still he casts the length and breadth of Germany for his enemies. The Führer delivers and the Führer destroys. And what of me?”
A coil of apple peel drops to the ground.
“I have brought you here,” Bauer continues. “I have prepared a place for you in the presence of thine enemies. Have I not?”
“What then?” Dietrich says. “Am I to bow down and worship you?”
Bauer laughs and hands Dietrich the skinned fruit.
“No thank you,” Dietrich says. “I like the toughness of the skin.” He picks up another apple and bites into it. He says, “Who are you meeting here, Alois, the Americans or the British?”
Bauer laughs again.
“Because I know what you expect,” Dietrich says. “You expect them to find you with me, and you expect me to vouch for you. To tell them how you saved me, an enemy of Hitler. And then I’m to reminisce about the wonderful time I spent in New York. Or will it be London? And we’ll all laugh and shake hands and they’ll let you go. But it won’t happen that way. I’m not going to give you a character reference.”
Bauer shakes his head and continues to smile. “That isn’t what I expect at all,” he says. “And that isn’t why I took you off that transport. You’re way behind me, good Pastor Bonhoeffer. I’ve no need for an introduction to the Americans. I’ve already met them. On several occasions.”
At the look on Dietrich’s face, Bauer laughs delightedly and so hard that he topples over on his back.
“In fact,” he says, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he squints at the sun, “they do know I’m here. This meeting has been arranged in advance. I’ve been to Switzerland, you see. Met with the chief OSS officer there. Officially known only as 110, though my own sources tell me his name is Dulles. We’ve friends in common, by the way. The Abwehr’s man in Switzerland, Gisevius, is a double agent working for the Americans.”
Gisevius. The German consul in Zurich who had considered Dietrich too much of an amateur to be operating in Switzerland. “You know Gisevius?”
“Oh yes,” Bauer says. “Have for years. Never quite trusted him, and with good reason, it turns out, but now we appear to be on the same side, so all that’s water under the bridge.”
“And what have you to offer the Americans?”
“Oh, I’ve already done quite a bit. Arranged the recent surrender of German troops in Italy, for one thing. The whole thing was planned over lunch with Dulles on the shore of Lake Maggiore. The Americans wanted Italy out of the way, you see, so they can concentrate on taking as much of Germany as they can before the Red Army arrives. A good idea for Germany too, don’t you agree? Himmler thinks so.” Bauer sits up and scans the valley as though expecting sight of American troops at any moment. “But they’ve other plans for me as well. Through some personal research of mine, I’ve become well acquainted with certain caverns in southern Germany where works of art have been stored for safekeeping. The Americans think once the art has been removed, these caverns will make excellent storage places for caches of weapons. In case the Russians overrun central Europe, you see, so that the weapons will be available for anti-Communist partisans. I’m to help the Americans carry out this project. And if all goes well,—” He turns toward Dietrich and beams. “Well, Dulles knows my record. He thinks they can continue to use me.”
“You!”
“Why not? The Americans are very concerned about the Communists, and they know the British are too beat up to be of much use now. And who has more experience at ferreting out Communists and other subversives than—” Bauer stands, spreads his arms wide, and takes a mocking bow.
Dietrich feels dizzy. He lies on his back in the sun with his eyes shut and perceives the movement of the earth in its orbit, feels the ground pitch and reel beneath him.
“And what has this to do with me?” he asks at last.
“Nothing,” Bauer says. “I just decided to save you. So, you will soon be at home with your family. Oh, but there is a favor I’d like to ask.” He sees Dietrich’s expression and hastens to add, “Believe me, nothing to which you can object. In fact, it will be a treat for you. Come back to the village with me.”
As they stroll back down the hill, Bauer puts his arm around Dietrich’s shoulders. “You know,” he says, “we have much in common, you and I. Even the failed attempt to betray our country. Do you know, at the very same time you were meeting the British in Sweden, I was in Switzerland trying to do the same thing. Contingent upon the SS overthrowing Hitler, of course. Himmler sent me. He knew even then Germany would lose the war, and thought it would be best if we cut our losses. But he got cold feet. He couldn’t bring himself to do away with the Führer, couldn’t break the oath of loyalty he’d taken.”
“Something you’d have had no trouble with,” Dietrich manages to say.
“I wish we’d done it,” Bauer says. “See? Just like you, my friend!”
The school they are lodged in has a small auditorium with a polished floor and a baby grand piano. Dietrich has already been playing. The piano is slightly out of tune, and three keys, including middle C, are missing their ivory, but all in all a better sound than the poor battered instrument at Tegel. Dietrich waits on the bench while Bauer goes off to his room and returns with a cardboard folder.
“Here,” he says. He locks the door behind him. “So the others won’t come in.”
“Why shouldn’t they?”
“No one must know about this,” Bauer says. “I’ve no way to safeguard it
until the Americans give me a place to live.”
Slowly he opens the folder to reveal a sheaf of brittle papers, gets down on his knees, and spreads them sheet by sheet across the floor. Dietrich, bending over them, sees page after ancient page of musical notations in a faded spidery hand.
“Have you any idea what it is?” Bauer whispers reverently. He still holds a single sheet in his hand. Now he lays it down alongside the others. Dietrich reads
Große Meße c-moll KV427 W.A. Mozart
“My God,” he says. “Is this the original?”
Bauer nods, unable to speak. It is the first time he has shared his treasure.
“Where on earth did you get it?” Dietrich says. “You shouldn’t have this.”
Bauer looks up with the pained expression of a hurt child. “Why shouldn’t I? No one loves it as I do.”
“But it belongs—” Dietrich casts about for the sort of argument Bauer might understand. “It belongs to the people.”
“Well,” says Bauer, “I am the people.” He turns back to the manuscript, takes up the next page. “I heard you play at Tegel. You’re very good. I want you to play this for me.”
He hands the page to Dietrich, who sees it is the Kyrie.
“Have you played it before?” Bauer asks.
Dietrich nods yes, he has. “Long ago,” he adds. “But that was a piano arrangement. This is the original, written for an orchestra. See here, the different lines for different instruments. In order to play this I’d have to improvise as I go, pick out the melody but add my own accompaniment.”
Bauer waves his hand. “It doesn’t matter, I don’t expect some polished performance. But I don’t read music, you see. I want to hear the melody, at least, from the master’s hand directly to an instrument. As Mozart himself might have played it, as undiluted as possible.”
He gathers up all the pages which encompass the Kyrie and hands them to Dietrich, who starts to refuse, but something in Bauer’s face, something of a lost soul, causes him to change his mind. “Only if the others can hear it as well,” he says. “I’ll need time to practice anyway if I’m to make heads or tails of this.”
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