Fatherland

by Robert Harris

  He was left with an oblong parcel, ten centimetres thick, unyielding to the touch, anonymous to the eye.

  He let out a breath. That was better.

  He added another layer, this time of gift paper. Golden letters spelled GOOD LUCK! and HAPPINESS!, the words curling like streamers amid balloons and champagne corks behind a smiling bride and groom.

  BY autobahn from Berlin to Nuremberg: five hundred kilometres. By autobahn from Nuremberg to Stuttgart: one hundred and fifty kilometres. From Stuttgart the road then wound through the valleys and forests of Württemberg to Waldshut on the Rhine: a hundred and fifty kilometres again. Eight hundred kilometres in all.

  ‘What’s that in miles?’

  ‘Five hundred. Do you think you can manage it?’

  ‘Of course. Twelve hours, maybe less.’ She was perched on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, attentive. She wore two towels –one wrapped around her body, the other in a turban around her head.

  ‘No need to rush it – you’ve got twenty-four. When you reckon you’ve put a safe distance between yourself and Berlin, telephone the Hotel Bellevue in Waldshut and reserve a room – it’s out of season, there should be no difficulty.’

  ‘Hotel Bellevue. Waldshut.’ She nodded slowly as she memorised it. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ll be following a couple of hours behind. I’ll aim to join you at the hotel around midnight.’

  He could see she did not believe him. He hurried on: ‘If you’re willing to take the risk, I think you should carry the papers, and also this . . .’ From his pocket he drew out the other stolen passport. Paul Hahn, SS-Sturmbannführer, born Cologne, 16 August 1925. Three years younger than March, and looked it.

  ‘She said: Why don’t you keep it?’

  ‘If I’m arrested and searched, they’ll find it. Then they’ll know whose identity you’re using.’

  ‘You’ve no intention of coming.’

  ‘I’ve every intention of coming.’

  ‘You think you’re finished.’

  ‘Not true. But my chances of travelling eight hundred kilometres without being stopped are less than yours. You must see that. That’s why we go separately.’

  She was shaking her head. He came and sat beside her, stroked her cheek, turned her face to his, her eyes to his. ‘Listen. You’re to wait for me – listen! – wait for me at the hotel until eight-thirty tomorrow morning. If I haven’t arrived, you drive across without me. Don’t wait any longer, because it won’t be safe.’

  ‘Why eight-thirty?’

  ‘You should aim to cross the border as close to nine as you can.’ Her cheeks were wet. He kissed them. He kept on talking. She had to understand. ‘Nine is the hour when the beloved Father of the German People leaves the Reich Chancellery to travel to the Great Hall. It’s months since he’s been seen – their way of building excitement. You may be sure the guards will have a radio in the customs post, and be listening to it. If ever there’s a time when they’re more likely just to wave you through, that’s it.’

  SHE stood and unwrapped the turban. In the weak light of the attic room, her hair gleamed white.

  She let the second towel drop.

  Pale skin, white hair, dark eyes. A ghost. He needed to know that she was real, that they were both alive. He stretched out a hand and touched her.

  THEY lay entwined on the little wooden cot and she whispered their future to him. Their flight would land at New York’s Idlewild airport early tomorrow evening. They would go straight to the New York Times building. There was an editor there she knew. The first thing was to make a copy – a dozen copies – and then to get as much printed as possible, as soon as possible. The Times was ideal for that.

  ‘What if they won’t print it?’ This idea of people printing whatever they wanted was hard for him to grasp.

  ‘They’ll print it. God, if they won’t, I’ll stand on Fifth Avenue like one of those mad people who can’t get their novels published and hand out copies to passers-by. But don’t worry – they’ll print it, and we’ll change history.’

  ‘But will anyone believe it?’ That doubt had grown within him ever since the suitcase had been opened. ‘Isn’t it unbelievable?’

  No, she said, with great certainty, because now they had facts, and facts changed everything. Without them, you had nothing, a void. But produce facts – provide names, dates, orders, numbers, times, locations, map references, schedules, photographs, diagrams, descriptions – and suddenly that void had geometry, was susceptible to measurement, had become a solid thing. Of course, this solid thing could be denied, or challenged, or simply ignored. But each of these reactions was, by definition, a reaction, a response to some thing which existed.

  ‘Some people won’t believe it – they wouldn’t believe it no matter how much evidence we had. But there’s enough here, I think, to stop Kennedy in his tracks. No summit. No re-election. No détente. And five years from now, or fifty years, this society will fall apart. You can’t build on a mass grave. Human beings are better than that – they have to be better than that – I do believe it – don’t you?’

  He did not reply.

  HE was awake to see another dawn in the Berlin sky. A familiar grey face at the attic window, an old opponent.

  ‘Your name is?’

  ‘Magda Voss.’

  ‘Born?’

  ‘Twenty-fifth October 1939.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Berlin.’

  ‘Your occupation?’

  ‘I live at home with my parents, in Berlin.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To Waldshut, on the Rhine. To meet my fiancé.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Paul Hahn.’

  ‘What is the purpose of your visit to Switzerland?’

  ‘A friend’s wedding.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Zürich.’

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘A wedding present. A photograph album. Or a Bible? Or a book? Or a chopping board?’ She was testing the answers on him.

  ‘Chopping board – very good. Exactly the sort of gift a girl like Magda would drive eight hundred kilometres to give.’ March had been pacing the room. Now he stopped and pointed at the package in Charlie’s lap. ‘Open it, please, Fräulein.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘What do I say to that?’

  ‘There’s nothing you can say.’

  ‘Terrific.’ She took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Well, would you look at that? My hands are trembling.’

  It was almost seven. ‘Time to go.’

  THE hotel was beginning to wake. As they passed the lines of flimsy doors they heard water splashing, a radio, children laughing. Somewhere on the second floor, a man snored on regardless.

  They had handled the package with care, at arm’s length, as if it were uranium. She had hidden it in the centre of her suitcase, buried in her clothes. March carried it down the stairs, across the empty lobby and out the narrow fire exit at the rear of the hotel. She was wearing a dark blue suit, her hair hidden by a scarf. The hired Opel stood next to his Volkswagen. From the kitchens came shouts, the smell of fresh coffee, the hiss of frying food.

  ‘When you leave the Bellevue, turn right. The road follows the line of the valley. You can’t miss the bridge.’

  ‘You’ve told me this already.’

  ‘Try and see what level of security they’re operating, before you commit yourself. If it looks as if they’re searching everything, turn round and try and hide it somewhere. Woods, ditch, barn – somewhere you can remember, a place where someone can go back and retrieve it. Then get out. Promise me.’

  ‘I promise you.’

  ‘There’s a daily Swissair flight from Zürich to New York. It leaves at two.’

  ‘At two. I know. You’ve told me twice.’

  He took a step towards her, to hold her, but she fended him away. ‘I’m not saying goodbye. Not here. I shall see you tonight. I shall see you.’

  There was a mo
ment of anti-climax when the Opel refused to start. She pulled out the choke and tried again, and this time the engine fired. She reversed out of the parking space, still refusing to look at him. He had one last glimpse of her profile – and then she was gone, leaving a trail of blue-white vapour hanging in the chilly morning air.

  MARCH sat alone in the empty room, on the edge of the bed, holding her pillow. He waited until an hour had passed before putting on his uniform. He stood in front of the dressing-table mirror, buttoning his black tunic. It would be the last time he wore it, one way or the other.

  ‘We’ll change history . . .’

  He donned his cap, adjusted it. Then he took his thirty sheets of paper, his notebook and Buhler’s pocket diary, folded them together, wrapped them in the remaining sheet of brown paper, and slipped them into his inside pocket.

  Was history changed so easily? he wondered. Certainly, it was his experience that secrets were an acid – once spilled, they could eat their way through anything: if a marriage, why not a presidency, why not a state? But talk of history – he shook his head at his own reflection – history was beyond him. Investigators turned suspicion into evidence. He had done that. History he would leave to her.

  HE carried Luther’s bag into the bathroom and shovelled into it all the rubbish that Charlie had left behind – the discarded bottles, the rubber gloves, the dish and spoon, the brushes. He did the same in the bedroom. It was strange how much she had filled these places, how empty they seemed without her. He looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. She should be well clear of Berlin by now, perhaps as far south as Wittenberg.

  In the reception, the manager hovered.

  ‘Good day, Herr Sturmbannführer. Is the interrogation finished?’

  ‘It is indeed, Herr Brecker. Thank you for your patriotic assistance.’

  ‘A pleasure.’ Brecker gave a short bow. He was twisting his fat white hands together as if rubbing in oil. ‘And if ever the Sturmbannführer feels the desire to do a little more interrogation . . .’ His bushy eyebrows danced. ‘Perhaps I might even be able to supply him with a suspect or two . . . ?’

  March smiled. ‘Good day to you, Herr Brecker.’

  ‘Good day to you, Herr Sturmbannführer.’

  HE sat in the front passenger seat of the Volkswagen and thought for a moment. Inside the spare tyre would be the ideal place, but he had no time for that. The plastic door panels were securely fastened. He reached under the dashboard until his fingers encountered a smooth surface. It would serve his purpose. He tore off two lengths of sticky tape and attached the package to the cold metal.

  Then he dropped the roll of tape into Luther’s case and dumped the bag in one of the rubbish bins outside the kitchens. The brown leather looked too incongruous lying on the surface. He found a broken length of broom-handle and dug a grave for it, burying it at last beneath the coffee dregs, the stinking fish-heads, the lumps of grease and maggoty pork.

  TWO

  ellow signs bearing the single word Fernverkehr – long-distance traffic – pointed the way out of Berlin, towards the race-track autobahn that girdled the city. March had the southbound carriageway almost to himself – the few cars and buses about this early on a Sunday morning were heading the other way. He passed the perimeter wire of the Tempelhof aerodrome and abruptly he was into the suburbs, the wide road pushing through dreary streets of red-brick shops and houses, lined by sickly trees with blackened trunks.

  To his left, a hospital; to his right, a disused church, shuttered and daubed with Party slogans. ‘Marienfelde,’ said the signs. ‘Bückow.’ ‘Lichtenrade.’

  At a set of traffic lights he stopped. The road to the south lay open – to the Rhine, to Zürich, to America . . . Behind him someone hooted. The lights had changed. He flicked the indicator, turned off the main road and was quickly lost in the gridiron streets of the housing estate.

  IN the early ‘fifties, in the glow of victory, the roads had been named for generals: Student Strasse, Reichenau Strasse, Manteuffel Allee. March was always confused. Was it right off Model into Dietrich? Or was it left into Paulus, and then Dietrich? He drove slowly along the rows of identical bungalows until at last he recognised it.

  He pulled over in the familiar place and almost sounded the horn until he remembered that this was the third Sunday in the month, not the first – and therefore not his – and that in any case his access had been revoked. A frontal assault would be needed, an action in the spirit of Hasso Manteuffel himself.

  There was no litter of toys along the concrete drive and when he rang the bell, no dog barked. He cursed silently. It seemed to be his fate this week to stand outside deserted houses. He backed away from the porch, his eyes fixed on the window beside it. The net curtain flickered.

  ‘Pili! Are you there?’

  The corner of the curtain was abruptly parted, as if some hidden dignitary had pulled a cord unveiling a portrait, and there it was – his son’s white face staring at him.

  ‘Can I come in? I want to talk!’

  The face was expressionless. The curtain dropped back.

  A good sign or bad? March was uncertain. He waved to the blank window and pointed to the garden. ‘I’ll wait for you here!’

  He walked back to the little wooden gate and checked the street. Bungalows on either side, bungalows opposite. They extended in every direction, like the huts of an army camp. Old folks lived in most of them: veterans of the First War, survivors of all that followed – inflation, unemployment, the Party, the Second War. Even ten years ago, they were grey and bowed. They had seen enough, endured enough. Now they stayed at home, and shouted at Pili for making too much noise, and watched television all day.

  March prowled around the tiny handkerchief of lawn. Not much of a life for the boy. Cars passed. Two doors down an old man was repairing a bicycle, inflating the tyres with a squeaky pump. Elsewhere, the noise of a lawnmower. . . No sign of Pili. He was wondering if he would have to get down on his hands and knees and shout his message through the letter box when he heard the door being opened.

  ‘Good lad. How are you? Where’s your mother? Where’s Helfferich?’ He could not bring himself to say ‘Uncle Erich’.

  Pili had opened the door just enough to enable him to peer around it. ‘They’re out. I’m finishing my picture.’

  ‘Out where?’

  ‘Rehearsing for the parade. I’m in charge. They said so.’

  ‘I bet. Can I come in and talk to you?’

  He had expected resistance. Instead, the boy stood aside without a word and March found himself crossing the threshold of his ex-wife’s house for the first time since their divorce. He took in the furniture –cheap, but good-looking; the bunch of fresh daffodils on the mantelpiece; the neatness; the spotless surfaces. She had done it as well as she could, without much to spend. He would have expected that. Even the picture of the Führer above the telephone – a photograph of the old man hugging a child – was tasteful: Klara’s deity always was a benign god, New Testament rather than Old. He took off his cap. He felt like a burglar.

  He stood on the nylon rug and began his speech. ‘I have to go away, Pili. Maybe for a long time. And people, perhaps, are going to say some things to you about me. Horrible things, that aren’t true. And I wanted to tell you . . .’ His words petered out. Tell you what? He ran his hand through his hair. Pili was standing with his arms folded, gazing at him. He tried again. ‘It’s hard not having a father around. My father died when I was very little – younger even than you are now. And sometimes, I hated him for that . . .’

  Those cool eyes . . .

  ‘. . . But that passed, and then – I missed him. And if I could talk to him now – ask him . . . I’d give anything . . .’

  ‘. . . all human hair cut off in concentration camps should be utilised. Human hair will be processed for industrial felt and spun into thread . . .’

  He was not sure how long he stood there, not speaking, his head bowed. Eventually he said: ‘I h
ave to go now.’

  And then Pili was coming towards him and tugging at his hand. ‘It’s all right, papa. Please don’t go yet. Please. Come and look at my picture.’

  THE boy’s bedroom was like a command centre. Model Luftwaffe jets assembled from plastic kits swooped and fought, suspended from the ceiling by invisible lengths of fishing-line. On one wall, a map of the Eastern front, with coloured pins to show the positions of the armies. On another, a group photograph of Pili’s Pimpf unit – bare knees and solemn faces, photographed against a concrete wall.

  As he drew, Pili kept up a running commentary, with sound effects. ‘These are our jets – rrroowww! – and these are the Reds’ AA-guns. Pow! Pow!’ Lines of yellow crayon streaked skywards. ‘Now we let them have it. Fire!’ Little black ants’ eggs rained down, creating jagged red crowns of fire. ‘The commies call up their own fighters, but they’re no match for ours . . .’ It went on for another five minutes, action piled on action.

  Abruptly, bored by his own creation, Pili dropped the crayons and dived under the bed. He pulled out a stack of wartime picture magazines.

  ‘Where did you get those?’

  ‘Uncle Erich gave them to me. He collected them.’

  Pili flung himself on the bed and began to turn the pages. ‘What do the captions say, papa?’ He gave March the magazine and sat close to him, holding on to his arm.

  ‘“The sapper has worked his way right up to the wire obstacles protecting the machine gun position,”’ read March. ‘“A few spurts of flame and the deadly stream of burning oil has put the enemy out of action. The flame throwers must be fearless men with nerves of steel.”’

  ‘And that one?’

  This was not the farewell March had envisaged, but if it was what the boy wanted . . . He ploughed on: ‘“I want to fight for the new Europe: so say three brothers from Copenhagen with their company leader in the SS training camp in Upper Alsace. They have fulfilled all the conditions relating to questions of race and health and are now enjoying the manly open-air life in the camp in the woods.”’

  ‘What about these?’