Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  The clatter from the wheels of the carriage grew louder as the express rattled over merging rail lines and the train slowed for the stop. Passengers rose from their seats, pulled luggage from overhead racks, noisily opened compartment doors and began to crowd the aisles. Mothers made young children presentable for family awaiting their arrival. Somewhere in his carriage an infant wailed, displeased at being awake and hungry.

  Ryan remained seated as the train slipped under the canopy of Potsdamer Bahnhof. He was hesitant to leave his fond memories for the stark reality of Hitler’s Berlin. Sad thoughts of Isabel flooded back, her vivaciousness, her disappearance. But his curiosity about changes in the capital was strong, and he looked forward to seeing the von Haldheim family once again.

  The train came to a standstill to the hiss of brake lines. Passengers in the aisle lowered the windows to pass through suitcases to waiting hands on the platform. Ryan allowed the aisle to clear, then took his valise and stepped down onto the familiar concrete. He moved with stragglers alongside the locomotive, its running gear already being serviced by train personnel. Nazi flags hung from the smoke deflectors on the massive snout.

  Two sullen men in fedoras and topcoats checked papers as the passengers filed past toward the concourse. They reviewed his American passport, made a note on a pad, and waved him on through. The acrid smell of coal smoke gave way to the aroma of grilled sausage coming from within the station. He was hungry. He would have lunch before making his first call.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Erika sat in the quiet of her childhood room, absent-mindedly stroking Leo’s fine, silky hair. The child lay asleep with his head in her lap. Still dressed in his traveling clothes, the boy was exhausted from the sudden late night train ride to see his grandparents in Marburg.

  She thought of how it was, learning you have something incurable which will soon wrench you away from those you love, from those who love you. She had watched the process often enough in her student years at the Frauenklinik. She would summon the patient to the doctor’s office where the open file lay before him. The sick woman, fearing the worst, sat nervously fidgeting with her handbag, the ring on her finger, a handkerchief. She would shake her head in disbelief before beginning to sob softly as the enormity of the news sank in. Erika would stand nearby to help her from the room, to answer questions about the course of treatment which always arose once the reality had settled in, all the while knowing that—in this case, as in so many—no cure was possible.

  Erika’s affliction also had no cure. She had married a committed National Socialist, a true believer and arch-achiever. Her marriage was a failure. Her powerful husband was a monster brimming with hate and brutality, a respected Nazi, a Gestapo big-wig. But ironically, she had achieved the social life and position she had sought. She was wealthy and lived in an envied mansion near the Wannsee. And she had a darling little boy who brought tears of joy to her eyes. And here, in the glorious Reich, married to the ultimate Aryan success, Erika had just learned a truth which would destroy all she loved.

  The social gathering of the previous evening had turned her world upside-down. All the Gestapo powerhouses had been present, even Reichsführer-SS Himmler himself. As with all Party functions, attendance was mandatory. The men were dashing in their black uniforms and polished boots, all gleaming insignias of rank and flashing smiles. The wives displayed their finest gowns and jewelry. Everyone traded witty small talk while sipping champagne and balancing plates of hors-d’oeuvres.

  Horst looked splendid as usual, and was, as usual, surrounded by women basking in his masculine glow. She hadn’t cared. Erika tried to stay as far away from him as socially acceptable. In private she also had kept her distance, especially now that she understood what for weeks had been the object of his dedication, knew its enormity and its horror. And the thought of living under the same roof with such a mind terrified her.

  She rarely ever entered Horst’s study. It had been a Sunday morning exactly one week before the event, and Leo had led her there. Horst was still in his bedroom, sleeping off the drug and inebriation, she assumed.

  She had discovered her son playing hide-and-seek beneath the heavy desk at the window. The boy refused to abandon his hiding place, so she waited for him to change his mind, sitting in her husband’s chair and absent-mindedly opening the leather portfolio embossed with eagle-and-swastika to peruse the meticulously-typed pages, now studded with Horst’s hand-written revisions and corrections. She could not stop reading despite her revulsion. So clinical, so precise, so typical of Horst von Kredow.

  There before her lay a monstrous plan to systematically kill the Jews of Europe in the wake of a path of conquest. Einsatzgruppen he called them, task forces designed for the mass slaughter of innocents. The protocol detailed the creation of paramilitary commandos, death squads comprised of SS and Gestapo. Their sole task was to follow advancing Waffen-SS troops, identify and round up Jews, Marxists, and other undesirables, and lead them to slaughter.

  The captives would be shot in the head or machine-gunned en masse. Local fascists would be recruited to assist in the murders. He recommended executions take place at the site of pre-dug mass graves to expedite disposal of the bodies. Men, women, children; no exceptions unless of some value to the occupiers, such as an expendable supply of slave labor.

  Erika sat back, shuddering at the heinousness buried in the cold, administrative language. Leo called up from beneath the desk, “Come find me, Mutti!”

  “One moment, Liebchen,” her voice as lifeless as those slaughtered innocents she pictured in her mind.

  She turned the following pages clumsily, her fingers as numbed as her mind by the cruelty and cold-bloodedness. A chill crept through her as she imagined the consequences for families sitting down to breakfast at that very moment with no idea of the coming horror. There were pages of numbers, charts. Projected Jewish populations to be “processed” based on SD research. Estimates of quantities of death squads required as the forces slashed their way across Eastern Europe. She found similar charts for France and Italy, as well.

  There were proposals for other means of extermination, as well. Horst’s suggestions were as varied as they were diabolical: mobile killing chambers on military trucks using exhaust fumes to suffocate those trapped inside, fatal injections disguised as inoculations, temporary—“perhaps permanent”—detention camps with dedicated extermination facilities. Recommendations for enlisting chemical works and pharmaceutical houses to see what products might already be available or convertible for such application.

  He advised that certain of the younger, stronger detainees should be worked to death as slave laborers, or extorted to help seek out and bring in Jews in hiding, once the killing began. It was suggested that some Jews could be coerced into guiding their fellow captives to slaughter at the killing sites with the promise of extending their own lives.

  “Mutti, you’re supposed to find me!” Leo tugged at her skirt to get his mother’s attention.

  She reached down and drew the three-year-old into her arms as tears streamed down her cheeks, then ran from the room, clutching him to her as tightly as possible. The report lay open on the desk.

  As the SS gathering had gained momentum, copious quantities of champagne flowed and the guests eased from one group to another, exchanging pleasantries and tired jokes. She was introduced to a tall, distinguished Sicherheitsdienst officer in his forties, hair graying at the temples, worn longer than the style chosen by most of the closely-shorn minions. His manner was aristocratic, his mood a bit somber for a get-together of this nature. He was presented as a newcomer to the SD team liaising with the Gestapo. Erika had been startled by the familiarity of his family name, and then made the connection.

  “Von Haldheim?” she asked, suddenly alert. “A friend of mine in Marburg knew the von Haldheim family here in Berlin, an American, Ryan Lemmon. Do you remember him?”

  “Yes, of course,” Rolf von Haldheim smiled briefly in recognition. “He an
d I shared interesting times in the city’s hottest nightspots some years ago. He lived for some months in our Grunewald home as a family guest.” His eyes flashed in remembrance before a hint of unexpressed melancholy returned. “As a matter of fact, I just learned he returns to Berlin in a week or so.”

  Erika hesitated, overcome by an unexpected wave of emotion and melancholy for times past, opportunities now lost. Ryan, in Berlin. Before she could ask more they were joined by other celebrants. Von Haldheim gave her a short bow and warm smile, clicked his heels and took his leave, forgoing the customary Heil Hitler. Erika sensed that his discomfort in this crowded setting was as great as her own.

  She glanced around for their host, ready to claim a headache and escape early. Instead she found the weasel-faced Klaus Pabst staring at her from across the crowded room. His cynical grin confirmed that he had caught her unwanted attention. He nodded slowly before moving in her direction. Since reading the protocol Erika had tried her best to isolate herself from Horst as she sought to process the damning information. Just knowing about it was tearing her apart, but she saw no way to intervene. She had withdrawn into a private shell, devoting her attention solely to Leo. But in public she went through the motions of a dutiful Gestapo wife. And now she had to face one of the most contemptible of her husband’s cronies.

  She tried to pick up on a conversation with others nearby to avoid speaking with Klaus, but to no avail. Even as a student she couldn’t abide the boot-licking Wachonian, the one Horst called his “dagger.” Klaus consistently made sexual overtures despite her protests that Horst would not appreciate such advances, but his lackey seemed unfazed by both rejection and implied threat.

  In reality, she doubted her husband would give a damn were it not for the insult to his own reputation and “honor,” and she knew that the sycophant was only interested in goading her. His devotion to Horst went far beyond admiration and respect; she viewed it as a form of worship. Klaus was his acolyte, a mindless devotee who found his purpose in the adulation of his Gestapo god. She sensed his jealousy of her relationship with Horst, but little did the weasel know he had nothing to envy.

  That evening however something had changed. Klaus appeared overly confident, not his usual unctuous self. “My dear Frau von Kredow,” he said, “A few moments of your time on this lovely occasion?”

  Erika honestly couldn’t recall the purpose of the event; there were so many and each as empty as the last. “But, Klaus, what could we possibly have to discuss?”

  “A matter of some delicacy. Perhaps a word in private?” He nodded toward the adjoining salon, momentarily free of guests.

  “You know that wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “Then I’ll be discreet in this less-than-ideal setting.” He bent closer to her ear and spoke just above a whisper. Erika strained to hear against the background of the loud party in progress. Someone nearby was trying to organize a group sing-along of Party favorites. “As you know, we spend a good deal of time investigating family histories. Simply to maintain the purity of the Volk, of course. Regrettably I’ve stumbled upon something quite unpleasant for you personally and for your loved ones, as well.” His look of concern was transparently insincere. “But only should it get out, of course.”

  Erika—suddenly attentive despite her aversion for the speaker—suspected some devious trick. “And that information is?”

  “Details here would be too distressing.” He gestured to the crowd surrounding them. “If indeed you don’t already know, I suggest you have a little talk with your parents. Delve into your family history a bit more closely.” Klaus’s smugness was repugnant. “For the moment I’ve been able to keep this under wraps, but I can’t say how long I can hold off telling your dear husband.” He squeezed her arm, didn’t let go. “Once you understand the nature of your problem, perhaps we can work out a mutually-satisfactory accommodation?”

  No words came to her, and she shook loose his hand. Klaus stepped back and grinned. He saluted sharply and turned on his heels.

  Erika stared dumbly after him, trying to understand what had just happened. The implication, however, was clear. Some discovery had turned the sniveling Pabst into someone with whom she must reckon. Would he dare try this if he couldn’t back it up? For the moment, Erika was truly perplexed.

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur. The distraction of the warning never left her, even when she was drawn into inane conversation and forced to feign interest as she attempted to get away. Seated in the car with a drunker than usual Horst, she found further time to question and worry as they rode home in silence. Once the chauffeur dropped them at the front door she immediately ran upstairs to check on Leo, asleep in his bed. She knew that Oskar would help Horst find his own way.

  She relieved Frieda Loos of her duties for the evening. Erika couldn’t abide the governess. Horst had added her to the staff after Leo’s birth, ostensibly to make Erika’s life easier with the baby. Her work record gave her age as eighteen, a girl from the country serving her obligatory household year in domestic service. But Erika knew immediately this woman was in her twenties, and much more than just domestic help. And when the year was up, Frieda had remained a fixture in the household. Erika acknowledged Frieda’s attractiveness to men in a buxom, peasant way, with full breasts, narrow waist and broad hips, and self-assured in her own sexuality. None of this bothered Erika, but Frieda was anywhere and everywhere in the house. Erika often came upon her in rooms where the nanny had no business. She was certain that the young woman was there to spy on her, and she felt robbed of any privacy, a prisoner in her own home. Horst insisted on complete control, and that included his marriage and household.

  Erika also assumed that her husband demanded more personal services from the nanny, having heard Frieda leave his room at the oddest hours. But she neither expected nor desired fidelity from him. When drunk he boasted of sexual conquests in repulsive detail, and she was grateful not to share a bedroom as in the first months of their marriage. From time to time he still visited her at night and took pleasure in her degradation. Despite the pain she was thankful that his demands didn’t risk another pregnancy. And now that she understood the depth of his depravity, his callous disregard for the lives of others, she was even more relieved that no additional child had been born into their household.

  This night, as on most evenings, she knew he would call for her to give him his morphine injection. He was fully capable of doing it himself, but enjoyed the revulsion she couldn’t hide when forced to serve him in this way. “Remember, my dear, you studied medicine,” he would taunt, “so prove your worth around here.”

  How her marriage had changed over the years.

  Once her “American boy” was gone from her life, she had felt an unexpected emptiness. Handsome, debonair Horst filled that loss with a promise of permanence and position. His imminent rise in the new Germany was a given, and he offered her a life she would never have found in Marburg. He changed in so many ways after the prolonged recovery from the deep cut to his face. She sat with him often during those weeks, despite finding pleasure elsewhere with Ryan.

  Horst’s dueling scar didn’t bother her any more than his lesser ones, but he had lost both smile and laughter in his convalescence. Instead, he met the world with a self-assured stoicism which many found intimidating. This new demeanor did not distract from his fine Aryan features and icy blue eyes, and she knew women envied her because of him. If they only knew the price she paid for such this dashing husband.

  Horst had proposed marriage just weeks after Ryan’s return to America. Her acceptance would put a premature end to her studies, and they would move to Berlin, the new capital of Europe. He treated her more gently than before, introduced her to his powerful local allies in the Party, and she fell under the spell of his power. When she discovered her pregnancy, she readily agreed to share his life. Her parents seemed less than pleased with her choice, but gave their consent when faced with her expectant condition.


  Her first experience with his tic douloureux left her stunned. He had inadvertently struck his cheek against the open door of a cabinet and dropped to his knees in agony. His head wrenched violently to the side in spasms, and tears streamed down his cheeks as he fought the urge to touch the afflicted area. The low howl from deep in his throat was agonizing to hear. The suffering lasted minutes, and there was nothing she could do for him. He shoved her away when she reached out to help. Afterwards he showed her the morphine and needles, and had her inject him.

  The second surprise was also not long in coming. Following the wedding ceremony they left for a brief honeymoon in Bavaria. They were expected in Berlin within the week. Although they lodged in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Horst spent most of each day away in Munich with Party associates. She spent hours alone on the hotel terrace admiring the Alpine views and reading.

  Returning late on the final evening, Horst was drunk and his callousness inflamed, as always when he drank too much. He threw her on the bed, forcing himself into her as she buried her head and tears in the pillows. She was fearful for the child growing within her, and realized she had married a man she didn’t know.

  The pregnancy brought an end to his attentions, a relief. When the doctor and midwife arrived at the beautiful Berlin home near the Wannsee the night of Leo’s birth, Horst was nowhere to be seen. He came home early the next morning, but waited a full day before coming to her room. Giving Erika barely a glance, he briefly examined the infant and declared his son a fine specimen. Obviously, other than as evidence of his adherence to the Nazi demand to create perfect Aryan offspring, children held little interest for him.

  She understood nothing of his actual work in the secret police. Everyone knew and feared the Gestapo, but she had always assumed his contributions were necessary to protect the people and the Reich. And their life had certainly improved in the years since the Party had taken control under their Führer. Now, having read the protocol, she realized the enormity of the Gestapo’s role. Shaken by that discovery, she felt a foreboding of what was to come. And it was coming to her personally. Her parents had tried to warn her away from the marriage. She should have listened.