by Wilbur Smith
The soldier shrugged. “The major’s over there, ma’am.” He pointed to an American, standing by the dignitaries. “But he’s real busy. They say Ike’s coming by this afternoon, wants to see the place for himself.”
Saffron nodded, muttered, “Thanks,” and went off to find the major. She explained her mission and showed him the letter from Churchill.
“Is that for real?” he asked.
“Mr. Churchill is taking a personal interest in this. There are members of his own family involved.”
“OK, I guess you’d better go across to the administration building, right over there. That’s where they’re interviewing the SS. Maybe one of those bastards can help you.”
Saffron followed the major’s instructions. A group of SS was lined up outside an office, waiting to be interviewed. A U.S. Army lieutenant was walking down the corridor toward her.
“I need some information. One of those men may be able to help me. Mind if I ask them a few questions?”
“Knock yourself out.”
She stood opposite the SS men, Dunnigan beside her. “I want to find a group of prisoners. They arrived here from Sachsenhausen, no more than two weeks ago, maybe less. They included a number of important individuals. What happened to these men? Can anyone help me?”
No one answered. But Saffron sensed that it was the stubborn silence of men who are withholding the truth, rather than the ignorance of men who don’t know it.
Saffron nudged Dunnigan. “Could you give me your packet of cigarettes?”
“Are you giving it to these buggers?”
“Yes . . . if it saves a man’s life.”
Dunnigan grimaced, then handed over an almost-full packet of Lucky Strikes.
Saffron held them up. “These, for anyone who tells me what I need to know.”
They were tempted, she could tell. The smell of tobacco would mask the stench of the camp. “Come on . . .” she encouraged. “No? Oh well . . .”
She turned to give the packet back to Dunnigan, then a voice said, “Wait, I can help you.”
There were muttered curses in German and she heard him snap back, “What the hell difference does it make? It’s over . . . all of it. Over.”
“Find us an unoccupied room, please,” she said to Dunnigan.
He walked along the corridor, opening and closing doors. On the third try he struck lucky and waved at Saffron.
She led the SS man to the room, sat him down and said, “Don’t waste my time. Talk.”
“There are one hundred and thirty-nine prisoners in a convoy of motor vehicles. They left here only hours before the Americans arrived. And they are going south.”
Now he too bargained, as Shevchenko had done. “Give me the cigarettes if you want to hear the rest.”
Saffron handed the packet over. “Now talk.”
“What I can tell you is this: they were going to a camp at Innsbruck, in Austria, to wait for orders directing them to their final destination. The name of this place is the Labor Education Camp. But there is no point trying to follow them there.”
“Why not?”
“Because the men in charge of the transport are under orders: if you are in danger of capture, shoot all the prisoners. If you, or any of your American friends, get close to the transport, then everyone on it will die before you can save them. And if they are alive, that is only because no one has found them.” He smiled as he concluded, “Either way you lose.”
Gerhard’s body was wracked by fever. His temperature rose so high that he would sweat through his clothes. Then it plunged, leaving him shivering in his seat. He found himself spending more and more time dozing, then dropping into periods of dreamless unconsciousness.
One of the Englishmen behind him said, “Do you think we ought to give him some of our soup? I know he’s a Kraut, but he must have done something to make Adolf cross, or he wouldn’t be here.”
“He’s a human being. We should try to help him. That’s what makes us better than them.”
Gerhard came to from one blackout to find that the coach had stopped. There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking it. He opened his eyes and turned to see one of the Englishmen leaning over the back of his seat behind him, holding out a lump of bread in one hand and a tin cup in the other.
“Food,” he said in English, “to eat.” He mimed the act of chewing and then said, “Yum, yum.”
“Thank you,” Gerhard replied. He took the bread and the cup, which was filled with a thin, watery, buckwheat gruel. It tasted both nondescript and unpleasant, as he knew it would, and Gerhard felt so ill that he had no appetite. But the soup was hot, liquid and would provide a small scrap of energy, so he tried to force it down.
“You speak English?” the man asked.
“A little . . .” Gerhard looked out of the bus window. He saw huts and a barbed wire fence, so it was a camp, but smaller than Dachau or Sachsenhausen. He had to close his eyes. It was sunny outside and the glare was unbearable. It made his head hurt even more than usual.
“Where are we?” he asked, turning away.
“Innsbruck.”
“Are we getting out here?”
Gerhard finished the soup and nibbled the bread as the Englishman replied, “Good question. Our SS chums seem to be arguing about that very point. Have you met Obersturmführer Schiller?”
Gerhard shook his head. He suddenly felt very dizzy and could barely keep his eyes open.
“He’s the chap in charge of our Cook’s Tour of the Alps.” The Englishman turned and peered out of the window, as he went on, “From what I can gather, he seems keen that we should disembark and find some digs here. But the local chap, who’s evidently in charge of this dump, seems to feel that he’s full up as it is. Reminds me of Joseph arriving at Bethlehem and being told there’s no room at the inn.”
“You’re wasting your breath, old boy,” the other Englishman said.
The two of them looked down at Gerhard, who was unconscious in his seat.
“Ah, right, poor chap’s dropped off.”
“It’s a bit more than that. I’d say he’s fallen into a coma.”
“Poor bastard, he looks all in.”
“Not long for this world, I’d say.”
“No, probably not . . . But then again, which of us is?”
They watched the SS officers arguing for a few more minutes. Then Schiller stormed off toward the staff car in which he was leading the convoy.
“Looks like he’s been given his marching orders.”
“Then we’ll be on our way any minute . . . but where to?”
The bus was coughing and shaking as its engine was turned back on and the convoy was on its way, still heading south, ever deeper into the Tyrolean Alps. An hour later it was traveling through the Brenner Pass, on the border between Austria and Italy.
“Stunning scenery, isn’t it?” one of the Englishman said as they drove past the meadows that ran along the bottom of the pass, with mountain peaks soaring upward on either side.
“Rather . . .” the other replied. “Oh, hang on. I think our German friend is coming to. Look, I’ve got a drop of that soup left, cold now, of course.”
One of the men propped up Gerhard’s head so that the other could pour a few drips of soup into his mouth.
“Thank you,” Gerhard croaked in a voice so weak they could barely hear it over the engine.
“I say, old chap,” the man with the cup asked, “what’s your name? So we can pass on your details . . . if the need arises.”
Gerhard closed his eyes and frowned, as if making an enormous effort of concentration. “Five . . . seven . . . eight . . .”
“No, not your prison number. We can see that for ourselves. Your name . . . Oh Lord, how does one say it in German?”
“Ah, something like . . . Was ist dein Name, bitte?”
Gerhard nodded. “Von Meerbach . . . Gerhard von Meerbach.”
Then he closed his eyes and passed out.
“Did you catch that?
” asked the Englishman with the cup.
“I think so . . . more or less, anyway.”
As she was leaving the administration building at Dachau, Saffron heard a cheer from one of the offices. She opened the door, peered in and saw four American soldiers clustered around a radio set. Before she could say a word, one of them exclaimed, “Hitler’s dead! That dirty, no-good son-of-a-bitch was killed yesterday. The Krauts have announced it on their radio . . . Adolf goddamned Hitler is dead!”
It was as if a huge black cloud that had been hanging over the world for years was lifting. The death of one man was meaningless in the face of the slaughter of millions, but it was now possible to hope, to believe in change, to see the terrible darkness of cruelty and bloodshed begin to fade and light emerge like a new spring.
Saffron felt numb. Her senses wanted to shut down as she and Dunnigan drove through the southern Bavarian landscape of thickly wooded hills and sparkling lakes, toward the mountains that rose in the distance. She wondered if the experience of the camps had scarred her forever, if she could ever know beauty again. She felt corrupted and soiled, but out here nature was surely renewing itself.
Almost to herself she said, “The air is so fresh and clean.”
“Not to me, ma’am,” Dunnigan said. “I don’t think I’ll ever get the smell of that place out of my head, I . . .”
He fell silent and for a moment Saffron’s attention was distracted by a bomb or shell crater up ahead, which she spotted immediately and steered around without any great drama, for it had become a familiar activity over the past few days. Only once she was back on the smooth road surface again did she glance across at the man in the passenger seat, and the moment she did she had to pull in at the side of the road.
The tough, battle-hardened sergeant was bent over with his head in his hands, sobbing helplessly.
Saffron leaned over and put a hand on his back. “What is it, Dunnigan? What’s the matter?”
He took a deep breath, wiped his face and looked at her with eyes still wet with tears. “That place . . . that bloody place . . .”
“I know . . .” she said. “I understand.”
“You know what war’s like. You see terrible things. Mates blown to bits in front of your eyes. Lads with their legs blown off, their guts hanging out. But that . . . that was the worst . . . that was like driving through the gates of hell . . .”
He sat up in his seat. “Still, I’m glad I’ve seen Dachau. I’ve seen the worst and I’m proud I fought against it, and now I’m going to make sure it never happens again.”
They reached Innsbruck in the late afternoon, only a few hours behind the U.S. 103rd Infantry Division who had entered the city without any significant resistance. Saffron located the divisional headquarters and set out to find the intelligence officers, while Dunnigan went to get fuel for the Jeep.
A combination of initiative, persuasiveness and regular use of the name “Winston Churchill” enabled her to locate the major in charge of divisional intelligence, explain her mission and tell him about the Labor Education Camp.
“Yeah, I believe I know the place you’re talking about. We keep an eye out for these camps now . . . after Dachau. But this one wasn’t like that, thank God. It was pretty much deserted. The SS had all skedaddled and if there was anyone being held there before, they sure as hell ain’t there anymore.”
Saffron sighed and her shoulders sagged. “I’ve gone from one end of Germany to the other, now into Austria. I’m so close to finding these people . . . I refuse to give up now.”
“Look, it’s getting late. Why don’t I find you a place to sleep? What rank is your driver?”
“Sergeant.”
“OK, I’ll get my staff sergeant to make sure he’s fixed up with some chow. I don’t know about accommodation, though. We only just got here.”
“That’s all right. He’ll feel happier sleeping by his Jeep. He wouldn’t like anyone else getting near it.”
The major laughed. “Yeah, guys can get real possessive about their wheels. But here’s what I’ll do. I’ll have one of my guys put the word out. We pretty much control everything around here now. Believe me, if there are a hundred and some prime ministers, princes, millionaires and aristocrats sitting on a bunch of trucks somewhere in this theater of operations, someone will as sure as hell have found ’em . . . dead or alive.”
Saffron took food at the headquarters field kitchen and a bed at a hotel that had been requisitioned for senior officers. The following morning, she ate a hearty breakfast, then went looking for the major.
He greeted her with a broad smile. “Captain Courtney—just the lady I was looking for. I have news for you, but I don’t think you’re going to believe it.”
“Why not?”
“Seems we’ve found your missing prisoners. One of them—a Limey, come to think of it—walked across country till he bumped into units of the forty-second Infantry Division. He led them back to meet the rest of his people. They were safe in the care of some German army officers, who were holding them”—the major paused for dramatic effect, and then concluded—“in a luxury hotel.”
“What?” Saffron gasped. “An actual hotel? Is this some kind of a joke?”
“I kid you not. The people you are looking for are safe, and most of them are well. The regular German troops took them into protective custody away from their murderous bastard SS guards, who had orders to kill them if it looked like we were winning this war. And if you come with me and look at this map, I will show you where to find them . . .”
•••
They had been on the road for three hours and covered around eighty miles when Dunnigan spotted a signpost marked ST. VEIT and said, “Reckon this is the turn, here.”
They were used to the scenery by now, the unfolding of yet more glorious views as they drove along a valley floor dotted with wooden farmhouses and barns. Seeing new vistas of hills and mountains no longer made their mouths open in wonder as it had done when they began their drive through the Tyrol a day earlier. They came to the end of the road, and there stood their destination.
The Hotel Pragser Wildsee resembled three huge Swiss chalets, built of stone and joined together: two larger buildings on either side flanking a smaller one in the middle. Steep, pine-covered hills rose on either side of the hotel and in the distance behind it Saffron could see the harsh, imposing mass of a precipitous, bare rock face, its summit still covered in snow.
All around them, U.S. Army Jeeps and trucks were parked, with soldiers wandering between them, looking relaxed. Many wore dark glasses and had their torsos bare to catch the sun. An MP stopped their Jeep and inquired after their business.
“We got Limeys here, ma’am, that’s for sure,” he said when she told him. “Dunno if they’re the ones you’re looking for. But you’re sure welcome to take a look-see.”
They parked the Jeep. Dunnigan stayed beside it to brew a cup of tea and have a smoke while Saffron walked toward the entrance, which lay beneath a canvas awning decorated with bright yellow-and-white stripes.
As they stepped into the foyer, a smartly dressed man smoking a pipe walked by with a pretty blonde girl on his arm. Two women, a blonde and a brunette, their clothes a little shabby but their manner and accents unmistakably upper-class, were chatting to one another in German. Beyond them a group of men in military uniform were strolling toward the back of the building, laughing as they went.
Saffron found it impossible to think that these people, who seemed at ease with the world, could have had any experience of the concentration camps. But this was where the prisoners had been sent, so who else could they be?
Saffron approached the women and asked, “Excuse me, were you on the transport from Dachau?”
The two women stiffened. “Why do you ask?” the brunette inquired.
“I’m looking for some British prisoners who were taken from Sachsenhausen to Dachau. I believe they were brought here.” Neither of the women had softened. Saffron offer
ed up a silent prayer and played her trump card. “I’m here at the personal request of Winston Churchill.”
“Can you prove that?” asked the blonde.
“Yes,” said Saffron, and showed them the signed letter.
The blonde relaxed. “I suppose you had better speak to another Churchill. Darling,” she looked at the brunette, “have you seen Jack lately?”
“I believe he’s on the terrace. You can’t miss him: a tremendously good-looking man in military uniform. I believe he is a colonel. And so amusing . . .”
The blonde laughed. “Do you know, his men called him Mad Jack because he insisted on going into battle wearing a sword?”
“He says an officer isn’t properly dressed without one!” her friend interjected.
“He also carried a bow-and-arrow and played the Scottish bagpipes! A remarkable man. He walked most of the way to Verona to fetch the Americans . . . He will tell you all you need to know. The terrace is through there . . .”
She pointed in the direction the three men had been walking. Saffron made her way through the hotel, pushed open some glass doors and emerged into a vision of a lost world. Before her was a terrace, filled with more neatly turned-out civilians and a score of military men representing almost all the Allied nations. Beyond them stretched a small Alpine lake, surrounded by mountains. A jetty ran out into the water and American GI’s were jumping off it to the shouts and cheers of their friends.
Saffron scanned the crowd on the terrace until she saw a tall, slim, mustachioed man in khaki British Army battledress, with the crown and single pip of a Lieutenant Colonel on his epaulets. He was as handsome as the women had promised, with swept-back sandy hair, strong features and a dimpled chin.
She approached him and asked, “Excuse me, sir, but are you Lieutenant Colonel Churchill?”
“I am,” he replied. “And who might you be?”
“Captain Saffron Courtney, First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, sir.”
“Tell me, is that a piece of decorative ribbon on your left tit or do you have the George Medal?”
“It’s the medal, sir.”