by Wilbur Smith
He managed to say, “So were there more Babi Yars, then? More good work done by those fine fellows of yours?”
“Oh yes, many more. Not quite that scale, but a host of smaller actions: a few hundred disposed of here, a few thousand there, it all adds up. But it’s too slow, that’s the problem. And too many of our men are weak. We assure them they are doing important work, that the world is a better, healthier place for the removal of the Jew-virus. But the shootings are bad for their morale, and they are expensive. As a method it requires too many men, too many bullets. It’s not efficient enough.”
“You make it sound like a problem on one of our production lines.”
“Actually, yes, it is very much like that. And, as in industry, so in this enterprise we need to find solutions to our problems. And now we have it: the final solution to the Jewish question. It’s Heydrich’s doing, you know. The man is a genius, an inspiration to us all. He has masterminded the whole scheme.”
“What is this final solution, then?”
“It is the plan by which we will kill all of those eleven million Jews. It is a marvel of preparation, logistics, transport, processing and disposal. I am not going to tell you how the task will be accomplished. The whole thing is secret. It’s a tragedy, if you ask me. One of the greatest undertakings in the history of mankind and yet it cannot be recorded for posterity.”
“Why not? Why not tell the world of this achievement? Why be ashamed of it?”
“It is not a question of shame, but of comprehension. Too many people in the world have been deluded into accepting the Jew, even valuing the Jew. They do not understand the need for eradication.”
“You mean they might object to the killing of eleven million of their fellow men and women. Heavens above! Why on earth would anyone do that?”
Konrad glared at Gerhard. “Are you mocking me, little brother? Are you questioning our Führer’s will? Are you foolish enough to suggest that what we are doing is wrong?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. You are the ones keeping it secret. You’ve told me that you’re worried about what the world will think. It sounds to me as though you are the ones who are in doubt.”
Konrad had made some blustering attempts to deny the logic of Gerhard’s point, but he was too full of wine and his arguments petered out into incoherent babble. Gerhard had left the table soon afterward and headed back to Berlin, his head spinning with the horrors his brother had just revealed. Then he had found himself on a plane with a man from the Ministry for the Occupied Territories, heading to Rivne for high-level discussions about a top secret matter. There were lots of secrets in a war, but Gerhard had a feeling that he knew what this one was.
He leaned across the aisle, so that he could get his head closer to Hartmann’s and said, discreetly, “So, tell me, man-to-man, what is your opinion on the final solution to the Jewish question?”
•••
Dr. Hartmann’s first thought was: Is this some kind of a test? But, if so, what was being tested? Should he prove his discretion by refusing to say a word about the outcome of the Wannsee Conference, or should he demonstrate his loyalty by affirming his support for the plans that Heydrich and his subordinate Adolf Eichmann had set before their astonished audience? Perhaps there was no more to von Meerbach’s question than met the eye. Maybe he really was a highly decorated war hero, who belonged to one of the richest, best connected and ardently pro-Nazi families in the Reich, and who happened to be flattering a ministry official by asking for his opinion.
Hartmann took a deep breath. “I believe that the Final Solution is an extraordinary undertaking, of vital importance, and I feel honored to have a small, but in some ways significant part to play in its execution,” he replied.
Von Meerbach nodded. “If you are enabling the Occupied Territories to play their full part in the operation then I am sure that you are indeed, if you will excuse me for sounding like an engineer, a vital cog in the machine.”
“Thank you, Squadron Captain, I will certainly endeavor to be so.”
“There is one aspect that intrigues me. I witnessed the, ah, processing operation at Babi Yar last September when my fighter group was based near there. In that instance, the traditional shooting method was used, but I gather that great advances have been made in the means of operation?”
“Oh yes. We have now completed the construction of a number of installations that transform the process from what one might call manual labor, to an industrial form that removes a great deal of the human element.”
“That must be more efficient, I imagine.”
“It is.”
“And more humane, too,” von Meerbach added. “I mean, in the sense of reducing the strain on those who had previously been required to do the work.”
“As I understand it, Reichsführer Himmler was deeply touched by the strain being placed on his SS men and the auxiliary staff assisting them.”
Von Meerbach nodded thoughtfully. “That says a great deal about the Reichsführer. I know my brother greatly admires him.”
“And with good reason.”
Hartmann was pleased at the way the conversation was going. He felt he had covered himself against any possible interpretation of the conversation. He had not, after all, revealed any specific operational details. Yet he was making his enthusiasm for the scheme apparent, and responding to Squadron Captain von Meerbach’s questions. Now he decided to be more daring.
“Might I inquire, Squadron Captain, whether you are required back at your unit immediately?”
Von Meerbach gave a shrug. “I probably should get back. I dread to think what my men are getting up to in my absence!”
Hartmann decided that laughter would be appropriate at this point.
“But I am not officially required at my post for another two days,” von Meerbach went on. “I had allowed a few days for my travel back from Berlin to the front. But thanks to this flight I have gained a great deal of time. Why do you ask?”
“I happen to know that there is going to be a practical demonstration tomorrow at a village near Rivne. One of our new mobile units is being put through its paces. Perhaps you might care to join me for the display?”
“Thank you, Herr Doktor. I would appreciate such an opportunity.”
“In that case, I will arrange to have you added to the inspection party. I will give you more details on our arrival at Rivne. Until then, perhaps you will excuse me. I have a lot of work with which I am obliged to catch up.”
Von Meerbach gave one of his film-star smiles. “My dear Hartmann, of course, please don’t let me disturb you.”
There really had been a Fog-Signal Switch, and a steam engine’s wheels had detonated it. But the rest of the charge that Saffron had set against the track was comprised of nothing deadlier than a large lump of modeling clay. And the stopping train from Fort William to Mallaig was not filled with Waffen-SS men traveling through Occupied Europe but was, in fact, empty.
Likewise the soldiers who had come running past Saffron’s hiding place above the cutting were her own Baker Street comrades, though they certainly would have seized her if they had spotted her, while the courting couple whom she had to get past without detection were a soldier and a local lass. They never had the slightest idea that their lovemaking had been observed, for Saffron had drawn a discreet veil across those activities in her report, not wanting to get either of them into trouble.
The seaside home that Saffron had fled past on her way to the jetty where the Resistance were supposed to be waiting was actually Arisaig House, on the west coast of Scotland, a short ferry ride from the islands of Eigg, Rum and Skye. This was the headquarters of Baker Street’s training operations in the Scottish Highlands. In its vicinity stood a number of country houses, scattered across a breathtaking landscape of lochs, hills and wild, empty beaches. They had been requisitioned as accommodation and training both for Baker Street’s British agents and those from Britain, Czechoslovakia, Norway and other European n
ations now under Nazi control.
The rockery and the vegetable garden across which she had run, the trees, the fence, even the marshy patch between the garden and the beach, where she had stepped off the path and been bogged down in the mud, were all in the grounds of Arisaig House. So too were the two red-brick huts, reached by a path across a field usually occupied by cattle, that had been constructed for use by Baker Street personnel: one as an ammunition store, the other for interrogation training.
Saffron herself was based at Garramore, a Victorian hunting lodge three miles north of Arisaig, set back from the icing-sugar sands of Camusdarach beach. But in the aftermath of three days’ brutal interrogation, her condition was deemed serious enough to put her in a room at the main house, where Dr. Maguire could keep an eye on her. She did not appear to need any emergency treatment, which was just as well, since the nearest hospital was thirty-five miles away in Fort William. There was, however, half a chance that she might have suffered some internal bleeding, and even if she had not, a few days’ rest and recuperation were certainly in order.
After her privations in the cellar and the interrogation hut, Saffron’s new accommodation was more to her liking. Arisaig House had been commissioned in 1863 as a shooting lodge, built for a wealthy industrialist from the Midlands of England on a grander scale than Garramore, or any other local property. It had remained unchanged for seventy years until a fire caused such terrible damage that the interior of the house had to be rebuilt. The work was done to the highest standards of the 1930s. The main bedrooms all had their own lavish bathrooms. There was electricity throughout, powered by the house’s own generators, since mains power had not reached that remote corner of Scotland. Central heating ensured that Arisaig was immune from the freezing chill that, as Saffron had discovered to her amazement when she first arrived in Britain, still gripped most of the stateliest homes in the country.
She had been assigned a bedroom on one corner of the first floor, which looked out in two directions. The windows opposite her bed provided a view toward the sea, over a small rose garden, which, with the lawns and the trees, would have kept a landscape painter happy for weeks. The window to the right of her bed, and another in her bathroom, overlooked a small yard that was a constant bustle of activity, as scurrying Baker Street staff and trainees went about their labors.
Her bed was large and blissfully comfortable. The bath was deep and she had been told to soak in as much hot water as she liked to ease her battered muscles. The food, too, was excellent, for not only were better rations allocated to the Special Training Schools, as Arisaig and the buildings around it were formally titled, but the large vegetable garden at the house, and the deer, grouse, salmon and seafood that could be harvested from the hills and waters all around provided a splendid variety of delicious fresh ingredients.
Saffron’s face and body still ached and the brutality of her treatment was replayed in nightmares that had her waking two or three times a night, with her pulse racing, her body bathed in sweat and her eyes wide open in terror. But in her view, that was to be expected as part of the work for which she had volunteered. A peaceful stay in blissful luxury, however, was an unexpected bonus and she was resolved to make the best of it.
Her mood was improved when the nurse looking after her walked in on the second morning with a tray of tea, some home-made biscuits and a large bundle of letters and cards from the other members of the Baker Street gang, congratulating her on her achievement and wishing her a speedy recovery. One message seemed to have come from even further afield.
The notepaper was headed by an embossed swastika, surrounded by a laurel wreath, beneath which was printed the address of the Reich Chancellery at Wilhelmstrasse 77, Berlin-Mitte. The words beneath it were written by hand in a spidery script that the whole world had learned to recognize.
Dear Fräulein Courtney,
Please for bad English my apology accept. But my glorious destiny requires me to you this letter be writing, so impressed I am by your prolongedinterrogationresistance (that is one word in English, too, no?).
My friends Herr Göring and Herr Himmler both agree. I must say, dear Himmi is such a funny man, you will love him when you get to know him. If you do not, I will have you shot.
Dr. Goebbels is crazy about you too. He also asks me to assure you that it is not true what the song is saying, that he has ‘no balls at all.’ He says he has two and they are large and very hairy.
I also have two. Not one, that is a total lie. I must that make clear.
Also Eva sends her love, though she ein grosse tempertantrum is having because everyone is saying that you are more red-hot than she is. (I agree. But do not tell Eva).
With regards,
Adolf Hitler
Saffron knew at once that the paper was authentic and that not even the Führer himself would be able to tell that it was not his hand that had scribbled the words. The writer’s identity, however, was revealed in tiny letters, on the reverse of the paper: “As dictated to the Forger.”
Saffron laughed. The Forger, as he was universally known, was a strange little man who acted as the would-be agents’ tutor in the dark arts of deception, snooping and fakery. He was always impeccably dressed and somewhat obsequious, like an over-attentive hotel manager or the assistant in a smart menswear emporium. Yet it soon became clear that he possessed a tough mind, a sharp eye and a wicked sense of humor. His meek exterior was, in that sense, one more way of fooling people. Everyone assumed he was a former criminal, specializing in fraud or confidence tricks, though no one had dared ask him to his face.
However he had come by his skills, the Forger was a remarkable craftsman. He always arrived for class carrying a briefcase filled with several bottles of inks of various colors and makes, along with a vast selection of pens, pencils, waxes, scalpels and erasers. With these, he taught his pupils how to forge signatures and create plausible “official” documents, so that even the most ham-fisted might be able to create, say, a travel-pass good enough to fool a busy conductor on a jolting, poorly lit train, and alter genuine papers to their advantage. They also learned how to extract a letter from an envelope, read it and put it back without leaving any trace at all.
The Forger persuaded each new group of trainees that he was worthy of their attention by learning to reproduce all their individual handwriting styles within a week of their first lesson with him. In fact, once she had read the letter from Hitler, Saffron wondered whether he had written all the other letters as well.
The next few minutes proved to her satisfaction that the signatures at the bottom of all the messages were genuine. The clincher was the message from the Czech trainees, based at Traigh House. The Czechs were greatly liked by the other Baker Street operatives and the local folk both for their determination to rid their country of its Nazi occupiers and for their high spirits. One look at the crazy comments and garish cartoons scribbled over the Czechs’ card was enough to convince Saffron that not even the Forger could have come up with such naturally wild exuberance.
Feeling buoyed by all those good wishes, Saffron decided that it might be a good idea if she caught up on some of her studies. She had asked for two books to be brought up from the Arisaig House library. Their titles were: All-In Fighting by W. E. Fairbairn and Shooting to Live, also by Fairbairn, but co-authored with a certain E. A. Sykes. In many respects, the books possessed the same general tone as any instructional manual produced by English authors for their fellow countrymen and women.
The books shared a format of sensible instructions, accompanied by straightforward illustrations, and delivered in a voice that came from a middle-aged gentleman in a position of authority. Had she asked for a practical homecare manual, or a guide to planting herbaceous borders, Saffron would have come across a similar style and tone. These two books, however, were very different. They were inspired by the experiences the two men had had as policemen fighting gangs in Shanghai, the most dangerous city in the world throughout the twenties
and thirties. They were the best guides ever written on the business of defending oneself and killing one’s opponent as efficiently as possible. The authors were the principal instructors at Arisaig in hand-to-hand fighting, or, as they preferred to call it, “silent killing” and shooting. More than anyone else in the Baker Street organization, it was Fairbairn and Sykes who were responsible for transforming prospective agents from innocent civilians to trained assassins.
It was hardly an amusing field of study, but the books had their lighter aspects, even if the humor was not always intentional.
Saffron had worked her way through the first sections of All-In Fighting. These taught the reader how to strike with the edge of the hand, the boot and the knee, and escape a variety of holds, including being strangled and bear-hugged by the enemy. Then something occurred to her.
She went back to the beginning and, as she flicked through the pages, she looked out for the same word, counting to herself, giggling as she did so. She did not notice as the door opened and two men walked in: Fairbairn and Sykes themselves.
They were not, at first glance, obvious candidates for the title of the toughest and deadliest men in the world. They were both short, bespectacled gentlemen in their late fifties. They more closely resembled a pair of Church of England vicars or retired music-hall comedians. Sykes had an amiable, dimpled smile and it was only when Saffron had looked more closely that she noticed the bulldog stubbornness of his jaw and the thickness of his neck. Fairbairn was commonly referred to as “Shanghai Buster.” He had a longer, thinner face than Sykes, with deep lines defining his sunken cheeks. His most prominent feature was a nose that had been battered so many times that doctors had given up trying to repair it, and a scar that ran from his chin along his jawline to the bottom of his left ear.
Sykes put his fist to his mouth and coughed.