Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  The presentation in Heydrich’s ceremonial office went well. Heydrich, Müller, and Eichmann had kept Horst waiting briefly in the antechamber before an aide led him to the long conference table. There were a few other SS advisors present, and each attendee had before him a copy of the protocol. Horst laid out the basic concepts and reviewed the projections, and was well-prepared for their questions. The gravity of the moment overcame both his headache and pressing personal concerns. Heydrich appeared distracted, but pleased overall. Happily, the value of Horst’s proposal was self-evident to all in attendance. Millions of Jews and agitators could not stand in the way of Germany’s need for Lebensraum, material resources, and racial purity.

  They congratulated him on a job well done, and at the close of the meeting the reason for Heydrich’s somewhat somber mood became clear. Horst learned that Gestapa Berlin had been in the dark about the Kristallnacht project until around midnight. Since neither Himmler nor Heydrich were forewarned of Dr. Goebbels’ vast propaganda undertaking, they resented the Führer’s having by-passed them and their input. They had only become involved after the fact, and then only secondarily. Publically, Hitler was denying any support for this “spontaneous outburst” of anti-Jewish sentiment among the German people. They all knew better.

  Only a few modest changes to detail and Horst’s plan would now move on to Himmler. Heydrich made clear that actual implementation appeared a long-term prospect, but they would be ready with training completed and contingencies removed once Hitler gave his go-ahead to move east.

  Now Horst sat once again in his own office and took more pressing personal matters in hand. Solving his own Jewish problem was only a question of time. He controlled resources ready-made to apprehend anyone who thought to outwit or outrun the Secret State Police. His people could watch every airport, every rail station, every border crossing. Snitches and lackey block wardens were everywhere, anxious to please. He had authority to commandeer local police, SS, military, whatever necessary. But this action demanded greater discretion, minimal involvement, a subtler approach. And he would take advantage of the uproar across the Reich to cover his personal enterprise.

  “Of course she’d try to save her parents. Don’t be a fool; she’ll head straight for Marburg.” He looked up from the report and addressed Klaus. “Paris via Amsterdam? What idiocy to fall for that, and we certainly didn’t require that show of force in Hamburg. The last thing I want right now is wide-spread attention. Discretion, Klaus, discretion!”

  Pabst ignored the brusque tone. Horst’s self-control was commendable—he had witnessed it many times before—but he could tell that his friend was deeply affected by the strange turn of events. “The Amsterdam lead simply couldn’t be ignored, Horst. We now have agents checking all the other rail stations, as well.”

  “Tempelhof?”

  “No one matching the description on any morning flights. I directed special attention to departures for Kassel or Frankfurt, but all passenger lists were reviewed. I’m thinking auto or rail.”

  “The roads are too slow except on the Autobahn stretches, but check the limousine services all the same. She’s underway now for sure. I’d lay money on rail, so we’ll take them at the Marburg end. What of the parents?”

  “Father’s detained, mother still unaccounted for. Out fetching baked goods when they nabbed the professor. But Marburg’s small enough, she’ll be picked up soon. We’ve put out a city-wide search, and our agents are waiting to welcome her at the station and then meet all southbound trains. A tight net—they won’t get through.”

  “The orders still clear on no interrogation?”

  “No interrogation, Horst. Detention without access until we arrive.”

  “Absolute discretion here.”

  “Understood.”

  “If someone does make the connection with my name, use the ‘protective detention’ cover. Say the damn Jews are trying to get at me. With all that’s going on, anyone will buy that.”

  The only factor complicating quick containment was the ongoing action on the streets. Local and regional authorities had their hands full that morning. Reports verified a major round-up of Jews for the concentration camps, destruction of hundreds of synagogues and shops throughout the Reich, and an adequate number of fatalities to rattle all the Jewish cages. Fresh dispatches were brought in by an aide, and Klaus scanned the pages. He immediately glanced over to Horst but said nothing.

  “Progress?”

  “Report from a control at Potsdamer Station. Man, early thirties, American passport, accompanying a slender German woman, blonde, with small boy. They recall a ‘von’ in the woman’s name.”

  “American?” His voice steady, neutral.

  “American,” Klaus nodded, “confirmed first-class tickets to Frankfurt via Kassel, departed at 7:53.” A glance at the wall clock, then the train schedule. “Somewhere between Magdeburg and Göttingen by now.”

  Horst tapped a steady drumbeat on the desktop with his fountain pen. He reached up with the other hand and carefully drew his index finger down the length of his scar, fractionally above the raised surface. He almost smiled. Ryan Lemmon.

  chapter thirteen

  Dieter Sprenger was on top of the world. It certainly wasn’t the weather that buoyed his spirits. Clouds hung low overhead, he bent his head against a biting wind blowing in off the Baltic, and the acrid smell of torched buildings still etched his sinuses. But Dieter was pleased with his successful night. Informed of the national action against the Jews after midnight, he had taken it upon himself to rally Brownshirts and Hitler youth to hit targets in the southern district of the city. Now, as he strolled through the streets and took in the devastation to shop fronts and plate glass, he congratulated himself on his personal contribution to this spontaneous outpouring of hatred on such short notice. He anticipated praise and perhaps more when he arrived at Gestapo headquarters.

  He had returned home to change clothes, the stench of smoke deep in the fabric of his suit and topcoat. Strangely, he wasn’t regretting a night of missed sleep. The adrenaline had not worn thin. His dear Anneliese had prepared a hearty breakfast, supplementing the usual bread rolls and coffee with soft-boiled eggs, slices of Tilsiter and Edamer cheese, and some fresh liverwurst from Heinlen’s on the corner.

  Before he left home he peeked in on the children. Liesl had decided to keep them out of school today because of the destruction in the streets. She didn’t want to unduly upset them. They were both a bit young to understand the real danger posed by the Jews, she felt. And there was always the chance that they might encounter some residual protests on the walk to school, or cut themselves on broken glass. Both little Dieter and Leni still slept peacefully. Liesl had mentioned over breakfast that the loud cries and breaking glass during the night had disturbed their rest. Dieter kissed each on the head. Ah, the soft fragrance of well-scrubbed children. He then gave his wife a quick peck and a big hug before setting out into the cold.

  Dieter Sprenger knew the day’s work schedule would be full. Hundreds of Jewish agitators and political targets had been rounded up in the early morning hours. His role in operations would now give way to hours of interrogation in the basement cells, extracting confessions and finding links to other enemies of the Reich. It would be good, satisfying work. Liesl had once asked if it bothered him to use extreme measures on the detainees. He had laughed at the thought. He told her this Dreck would destroy her and the kids given half a chance. His work was for the cause of German purity and national pride, and she and the children should be proud of him in turn.

  His spirits high, Dieter wrapped his woolen scarf a bit more tightly around his neck and pulled his hat down to keep the brim from catching in the wind. Only a few vehicles moved through the neighborhood, even though it was past mid-morning. He chose his usual shortcut along an industrial boulevard. The street, bordered by warehouse buildings, was nearly empty of life. He took little notice of the few vehicles parked along his customary route. The one mos
t important in the life of Dieter Sprenger was a dark Horch sedan. It rolled quietly from the curb just after he passed. He barely noticed the movement, his thoughts on an anticipated promotion for the night’s work. As the car gained momentum he heard the unexpected revving of the engine and turned his head in time to see the massive headlamps and grill just meters from the small of his back. His morning went dark.

  Warmth flowed down his face and pooled around his head where it rested on the pavement. He smelled the ocean, the beach on a warm, sunny day. His eyeglasses were gone and his vision blurred, but he sensed a fire hydrant pressed against his body and considered the perverse notion that he was somehow embracing it. He heard gushing water, waves pounding on a distant shore. The Horch shifted gears and its right tire backed over his legs. The gears meshed once again and the sedan rolled up over his back as it sped away. He realized then that he had no feeling in his limbs. The day was far less glorious now. Dieter felt his mind graying, losing itself in the overcast. He thought of his wife, cleaning up the breakfast dishes. He thought of his children, still tucked in their warm beds. The taste of the fresh liverwurst lingered at the back of his mouth.

  As he lay dying, there were no thoughts of the many detainees he had questioned so thoroughly in the basement rooms, and certainly no recollection of the old pastor whose wracked body had made such a mess of his table. He would never link that one interrogation to this unfortunate end.

  The train slowed for the scheduled stop at Magdeburg. Ryan left his companions in the compartment for a quick dash to the station restaurant. No sooner had the carriage doors opened than he was on the platform heading for the canteen. Erika watched him carve a path through the throng of people, obviously offering apologies right and left as he pushed forward through the crowd.

  The platform was awash in humanity. Many of the travelers appeared to be fleeing the turmoil in the city. She and Ryan had briefly spoken of the horrible Jew-baiting and destruction witnessed that morning, but they had hoped to keep Leo’s attention elsewhere. It was an impossible task. Those hoping to board were harried by SA troops and plainclothes policemen, and many of the refugees were being turned back before reaching the trains. A woman collapsed at the gate in tears, her small children gathering about her trying to give comfort as two men brusquely grabbed her arms and forced her to rise.

  Leo asked what those people had done wrong, and she was at a loss to explain. “Some people think they shouldn’t be allowed to stay here, Leo, others think they shouldn’t be allowed to leave.” He looked at her quizzically. It all made no sense, and she knew it. So they just watched.

  Her body ached from the brutality of the night before, but her focus was on saving her son and parents, so she forced herself to set aside her own physical suffering and concentrate on the moment at hand. She knew she would heal, assuming they got away.

  The door to the compartment opened, and a middle-aged man asked if the empty seats were unoccupied. He carried an over-stuffed suitcase, its straps fighting the bulging contents and its colorful decals of tourist destinations helping hold it all together. His smile was warm and genuine.

  “Of course,” she said, seeing no option but to grant him one of the free seats.

  “Then I’ll join you,” he said, hanging topcoat and hat on a hook and hefting the well-traveled bag into the overhead rack. “Quite the mess outside today, don’t you think?” He gestured to the activity beyond the window.

  “It’s frightful,” she replied. “One doesn’t feel safe.” Erika’s words were ambivalent, the inevitable wariness with strangers. One never knew.

  “I, for one, wish they’d ship the lot of them off to Palestine.” The stranger smiled serenely. “And soon. I do hear they’re doing a better job of it in the Ostmark already. Grab the bull by the horns, that’s my motto.” He took a seat next to the door. “But at least today’s a good beginning.” She remained silent. Leo looked at him with interest. She knew the boy appreciated the stranger’s smile, a pleasant change from the downturned faces he was seeing that day.

  Ryan suddenly stood at the door, his arms filled with sandwiches, salt-encrusted pretzels, bottles of beer and lemonade. Erika saw his fleeting surprise at finding a new passenger in their compartment. He greeted the stranger and took the window seat opposite Erika and the boy. The conductor called for final boarding, and the carriage doors slammed shut. Ryan distributed the food, offering one of the sandwiches to the man. He declined politely, patting his belly and protesting that he had just eaten. Leo chewed hungrily, while Erika nibbled distractedly at a pretzel, all the while trying to catch Ryan’s eye and warn him of the danger.

  “Are you enjoying a nice train trip with your mommy and daddy?” The man smiled at Leo.

  “This is my Mutti,” Leo corrected him politely, “but this isn’t my father. This is a good friend of Mutti.” There was an embarrassing silence, as Ryan and Erika exchanged quick glances. The stranger’s face went blank.

  “My father is a policeman,” Leo continued undeterred. “But—and this is a secret, so don’t tell anyone—Mommy’s friend is also a secret policeman, too. They both have badges.”

  Erika held her breath.

  The man smiled wanly and looked out toward the aisle. Silence ruled. Leo went back to chewing. Erika and Ryan stared at each other, polite smiles frozen on their faces. The man glanced nervously at his watch, as if remembering an important appointment elsewhere. Abruptly he rose from the bench. “You will excuse me, but…” The sentence remained unfinished. The stranger pulled down his bag, grabbed his coat and hat, and stepped out of the compartment. “Auf Wiedersehen.” His voice was muffled by a swift retreat down the aisle.

  “No one likes a secret policeman,” Ryan said.

  “I like secret policemen,” Leo said through a mouthful of sandwich, not looking up. He took a sip of lemonade. Traveling with a three-year-old could spell trouble. Ryan and Erika shook their heads in relief.

  Looking out at the passing countryside Erika picked out a plume of smoke rising from a town in the distance. On a railroad siding, armed Brownshirts shoved a small group of men up onto the bed of a canvas-covered truck. Their mouths moved soundlessly as the train sped past, a silent film with no musical accompaniment. But in their expressions and gestures she read rudeness, brutality.

  Weary and desperate travelers thronged the station, their baggage heaped in piles left and right. If she waited too long, if too many trains arrived and departed, Minna Breitling feared drawing the attention of the police and Brownshirts milling about, hassling travelers who looked Jewish, or just distressed. The police dogs were especially disturbing. She loved animals, but these Alsatian wolf dogs, straining against their leashes, barking constantly and flinging saliva from their jowls, put her already tested nerves on edge. Smoke from the locomotives chuffing past caused her stomach to churn.

  She thought of the missed breakfast with her husband. Now lunchtime had come and gone, but she had no appetite, no desire to enter the station and find something to eat. She wondered where he would be by now, what cruelties were already inflicted on the man she loved so much. Whether he would suffer long, or go quickly.

  Huddled against the chill on a platform bench, she took a slip of paper from her handbag and began to write. Her hand unsteady, she held the paper firmly against the side of the bag to keep the note legible. Despite the cold she pulled off her gloves to better control the pen. Minna glanced once again at the arrivals board. In only a few minutes the express from Berlin would make its stop. She would see her daughter and grandson.

  DIE FALLE

  The Trap

  10 November 1938

  CHAPTER ONE

  Heavy-set and with tobacco-stained teeth, watery eyes and a nose distorted by multiple breaks, Josef “Sepp” Kreisler did not make a great first impression, and he knew it. He valued intimidation, turning it to his advantage. Those who had a beer with him often regretted sticking around for a second or third, for he was a mean drunk. Only his
partner Ewald Fischer found some pleasure in his company, for they shared similar tastes.

  Sepp had been the grammar school bully, an unemployed thug when he dropped out. Finally apprenticed to a machinist, he lost his temper one day and took out his frustration on the journeyman teaching him use of the hydraulic press. He spent two years in prison for assault. The machinist would spend the rest of his days with only one hand. Once out of prison, he found his true fellowship in the budding Nazi party in Munich. What greater pleasure than the camaraderie found in drinking and picking on weaklings and traitors to the German cause? While the rousing speech-making of their leader Adolf Hitler went mostly over his head, he knew the long-winded harangues ultimately led to unrestrained head-bashing in beer halls and on the streets.

  Soon after the National Socialists took control of Germany, Sepp discovered his niche. Upon consolidation of the Reich police forces he was recruited to the Gestapo as a field agent in Kassel. The local supervisor Peter Brenner needed additional muscle for rounding up dissidents and troublemakers and cart them off to Dachau, and Sepp won favor with his intimidating demeanor. He spent his days encouraging snitches and making rounds to gather the monthly loyalty reports from block wardens under his watch. Sepp was also much in demand on raids, whether to pick up Jews, Freemasons, Catholics, Marxists or Socialists. He never gave much thought to the various targets of the raids, all enemies of the Reich, so it really didn’t matter.

  What was important was that he did what he loved most: intimidate, browbeat, mistreat. And he had no qualms about using his fists, his feet, even a garrote. Few were lucky enough to find work which spoke so well to their favorite pastimes, and Sepp did it all well, yet felt underrated by his superiors.