by Philip Kerr
‘The early bird catches the worm, huh?’
‘In my line of work there’s always that possibility. But it’s more likely the other way around. There’s not much escapes worms. Believe me, you can tell a lot from them. That’s one of my forensic specialties: tissue degeneration. How long a body has been dead. That kind of thing.’
‘You’re right. I’d better drive you home.’
‘Hey, I thought you liked my perfume, Gunther.’
‘Formaldehyde number one? Oh, I do like it. But I have to get some rest, too. I’m taking a girl to see the Kremlin in the moonlight tomorrow night.’
We hardly knew each other and yet, without ever having acknowledged it with so much as a word or a brushed finger, we both seemed to recognize something in the other’s eyes that – against all expectation and beyond all understanding – felt as if it was determined to make us lovers. We had connected on some invisible level behind our clever conversation and common courtesies, and it would have spoiled the game if either one of us had mentioned aloud what we sincerely hoped would happen. There was no admission of what we really felt – an atavistic attraction that was more than lust and yet not love either. Words – even German words – would have been inadequate and certainly too clumsy for what we felt. No more was there any kind of objection raised to the idea of what hovered unspoken in the air between us. Never; not once. It just seemed as if we both knew it was going to happen because it was simply meant to be. Of course that kind of thing happened a lot during the war, but still this felt like something out of the ordinary. Perhaps it was the place we were in and what we were doing, as if there was so much death around that it would have seemed a kind of blasphemy not to have gone along with what the capricious generosity of life seemed willing to thrust upon us.
And when, standing in front of her wooden door, we turned expectantly towards each other, the trees at Krasny Bor held their silvery breath and the darkness discreetly closed its black eyes so that nothing might prevent this final coming together. But like a conductor trying to settle his orchestra for a long, silent moment, I just held her and looked at the perfect oval of her face in anticipation of the moment when I might inhale the sweet breath in her mouth and taste the subtler heaven in her lips. Then I kissed her. At the brush of my mouth on hers I heard bees in my ears and felt a leap in my chest as strong as if the damper mechanism had been lifted on a grand piano and every string had sounded at once, and my apotheosis was complete.
‘Are you coming in, Bernhard Gunther?’ she asked.
‘I think I am,’ I said.
‘You know something Bernie? You ought to be a gambler, luck like yours.’
CHAPTER 9
Wednesday, April 28th 1943
I had to hand it to Goebbels; the minister had chosen his Katyn public relations officer carefully. Lieutenant Gregor Sloventzik wasn’t even a member of the Party. Moreover he seemed to be extremely good at what he did – a real Edward Bernays, a man who understood the science of ballyhoo extremely well. I thought I’d never met a man who was better at handling people – everyone from the field marshal to Boris Bazilevsky, the deputy mayor of Smolensk.
Sloventzik was a reserve army officer who’d worked as a journalist on the Wiener Zeitung before the war, which was how he knew the people at the ministry. The first state secretary in the ministry, Otto Dietrich, and Arthur Seyss-Inquart, the Austrian-born Reichskommissar for the Occupied Netherlands, were both reputed to be his close personal friends. Smooth and personable, Sloventzik was in his early forties, with an easy smile and impeccable manners. He was tall, with longish hair and a hawk-face, and with his dark complexion he was no one’s idea of a Nazi. He wore a tailored lieutenant’s army uniform as if it had been a colonel’s, and under his right arm he was forever carrying a large ring file that held pages of key facts and figures about what had been discovered concerning the bodies in the mass grave at Katyn Wood. His efficiency and diplomatic skills were only exceeded by his great facility with languages; but his powers of diplomacy came crashing down to earth when, a matter of hours before the arrival of the international commission representatives, the Polish Red Cross decided that Sloventzik had grievously insulted the whole Polish nation and hence it was now considering returning immediately to Poland.
Count Casimir Skarzynski, the secretary general of the Polish Red Cross, with whom I had formed a closer acquaintance – I wouldn’t have called it a friendship, exactly – and Archdeacon Jasinski came to my hut at Krasny Bor where, much to the irritation of Field Marshal von Kluge, they were staying, and explained the problem.
‘I don’t really know who and what you are, Herr Gunther,’ the count said carefully. ‘And I don’t really care. But—’
‘I told you before, sir. I’m from the German War Crimes Bureau in Berlin. Before the war I was a humble policeman. A homicide detective. There used to be a law against that sort of thing, you know. When people killed other people, we put them in prison. Of course, that was before the war. Anyway, until you arrived Judge Conrad and I were, at the invitation of the Wehrmacht, the investigating officers here in Katyn.’
He nodded. ‘Yes. So you say.’
I shrugged. ‘Why don’t you tell me how Lieutenant Sloventzik has insulted your nation and I’ll see what I can do to put that right?’
The count removed a brown Homburg hat from his head and wiped his high forehead. He was a very tall, distinguished, grey-haired man of about sixty and wore a three-piece tweed suit that already looked too warm for comfort. It seemed like only yesterday that Smolensk had been too cold for comfort.
The archdeacon, more than a head shorter, wore a plain black suit and a biretta. He took off his glasses and shook his skull-like head. ‘I’m not sure this can be fixed,’ he said. ‘Sloventzik is being unusually obdurate. On two separate matters.’
‘That doesn’t sound like him at all,’ I said. ‘He always seems so unfeasibly reasonable.’
The count sighed. ‘Not this time,’ he said.
‘Sloventzik has repeatedly informed us that our report should list twelve thousand bodies in Katyn Wood,’ said the archdeacon. ‘That is the figure provided by the German ministry of propaganda in its radio broadcasts. Our own information however – from the Polish government in London – suggests a figure of less than half as many. But Sloventzik is quite adamant about this and has suggested that were he to disagree with your own government’s figures, it might cost him his head. I’m afraid this has caused several members of our party to ask questions about our own safety.’
‘You see,’ added the count, ‘one or two members of the Polish Red Cross have friends or relations who have suffered at the hands of the Gestapo, or who were even beheaded in German prisons in Warsaw and Krakow.’
‘I can see your point,’ I said. ‘Look, I’m sure I can sort this out, gentlemen. I’ll speak to Berlin and have this matter clarified today. In the meantime I can assure you that regarding the security of all the members of the Polish Red Cross there is absolutely no cause for concern. And you have my apologies for whatever alarm you’ve encountered here today. I might add that Lieutenant Sloventzik has been working extremely hard ahead of the arrival of the international commission to make sure that everything runs smoothly. You’ll appreciate that his only concern has been to make sure that this bestial crime is properly investigated. Frankly, gentlemen, I think he’s been working too hard. I know I have.’
‘Yes that is possible,’ admitted the count. ‘He is most diligent in many respects. There is however another matter, and that is the issue of the Volksdeutsche. Poles born in Poland for whom German and not Polish is their first language. Poles who before the Great War were East Prussians. Ethnic Germans.’
‘Yes, I know what they are,’ I said, patiently. ‘But what have ethnic Germans to do with any of this?’
‘Many of the bodies that have been found so far were Polish officers of German origin,’ explained the count.
‘Look, I’m sorry gentlemen,
’ I said, ‘but these officers are dead, and I don’t see that it matters very much now where they came from if they were butchered by the Russians.’
‘It matters,’ explained the archdeacon stiffly, ‘because Sloventzik has ordered a separation between those Polish officers who are discovered to be Volksdeutsche in origin and those who are not. The lieutenant proposes that the Silesian ethnic Germans receive separate burial. It’s almost as if the rest of the Poles are to be treated as second-class citizens because they are ethnic Slavs.’
‘The Slavs who have been exhumed are not to be given coffins,’ said the count.
‘Well, he’s only a lieutenant. As his superior officer it’s a very simple matter for me to countermand that order. I tell him to do something and he salutes and says “Yes sir”.’
‘You might reasonably think so,’ said the count. ‘Especially in a German army that prides itself on obeying orders. However it’s our belief that Sloventzik’s been put up to this by Field Marshal von Kluge, who as I’m sure you know is a Silesian German himself. From Posen. And has no love for ethnic Poles like us.’
This was more complicated; it wasn’t just Von Kluge who, like the late Paul von Hindenburg, was a Silesian German, it was Colonel von Gersdorff and, to my knowledge, several other senior officers at Army Group Centre, many of them proud Prussian aristocrats who had narrowly escaped becoming Poles because of the treaty of Versailles.
‘I see what you mean.’ I offered them each a cigarette which, Polish cigarettes being what they were, the two Poles accepted gratefully. ‘And you’re absolutely right. This does sound as if the field marshal is behind it. I don’t think his sense of honour and pride has ever recovered from the Seven Years War. However I can promise you gentlemen that this matter is being followed at the highest levels in Berlin. It was Doctor Goebbels himself who insisted that you be given control of the investigation here in Katyn. He’s told me nothing is to be done that interferes in any way with your pre-eminent role in this matter. My own orders make it quite clear that the German military authorities in Smolensk are to give the Polish Red Cross every assistance.’
I smiled to myself and put my hand to my mouth as if I might belch after swallowing such egregious lies whole – not just the lies Goebbels told, but the lies I’d told myself.
‘It may be however that these orders need to be heard again, in certain quarters. I can even write it down in the lieutenant’s ring-file if you like. Just to make sure that he remembers.’
‘Thank you,’ said Archdeacon Jasinski. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
I figured he was the person in the Polish Red Cross probably most in fear of the Nazis. According to what Freiherr von Gersdorff had told me, when Jasinski had been the bishop of Lodz, he had been subjected to close home arrest. The governor of the Kalisz-Lodz District, one Friedrich Übelhör, had forced him to sweep the square in front of the cathedral, while his auxiliary bishop, Monsignor Tomczak, had been sent to a concentration camp after suffering a brutal beating. That kind of thing can test a man’s faith not just in his fellow men but in God, too. I’d seen the archdeacon crossing himself on the edge of grave number one. He did it with such alacrity that I wondered if he was reminding himself of what he believed, although the evidence of his own eyes ought to have told him that God was not to be found in Katyn Wood and probably nowhere else either. Even the cathedral felt more like a museum.
I smiled. ‘Don’t thank me yet, archdeacon. Give me time here. History teaches that my superiors can always be depended on to entertain me with one disappointment heaped on top of another.’
‘One more thing,’ said the count.
‘Two,’ said the archdeacon. ‘The Szkola Podchorąžych.’
‘Please.’ I glanced at my wristwatch. ‘I think I’m nearing the limit of my usefulness.’
‘The lieutenant’s ring-file contains other mistakes that we’ve tried to bring to his attention,’ said the count. ‘He says the trees on the grave are four years old, but this would mean they were planted in 1939, a year before—’
‘I think we can all remember what happened in 1939,’ I said.
‘And he says the epaulettes on some of the victims have the initials “J.P.” when they are actually “S.P.”, which is the Polish Cadet Officers’ School.’
‘If you’ll forgive me, count, I have to go to the airport and help look after the distinguished medical representatives of twelve countries, not to mention journalists and other Red Cross officials.’
‘Of course,’ said the count.
‘But rest assured, gentlemen, I promise to speak to Berlin today about those two other matters we discussed. It will give me something to do.’
*
Buhtz, Ines, Sloventzik and I went in a coach to fetch the experts and their assistants from the airport. I had a peculiar feeling about that coach. Supplied by the SS, it had new windows and the floor under the carpet was made of thick steel; beneath the hood was a Saurer engine, but it was fitted with a curious gas generator that ran on wood chips – you could smell the huge amounts of carbon monoxide it created long after the thing had gone – because, according to the driver, gasoline was short and all our spare supplies were now being directed north to supply the Ninth Army. That much was true, I knew, but still, I had a peculiar feeling about that coach.
Ines told me she was very excited because the international commission included all of the most distinguished names in the field of forensic medicine outside of Great Britain and the United States, and that she hoped to learn much from these men during their three days in Smolensk. She was as eager as if she’d been a little girl who was going to meet her favourite movie stars. Professor Naville of Geneva and Professor Cortes of Madrid were the two she declared to be specially eminent in her field; the rest were from as far afield as Belgium, Bulgaria, Denmark, Finland, Croatia, Italy, Holland, Bohemia and Moravia, Romania, Slovakia, Hungary and France. Not officially part of the international commission, Buhtz and Ines were going to present the experts with evidence they had collected from the nine hundred and eight bodies that had so far been exhumed; but the commission’s all-important report was to be compiled without any German participation. Being the ringmaster suited Buhtz just fine. He was tired. Since the beginning of April he’d carried out more post-mortems than an Etruscan soothsayer and identified almost seven hundred men. Ines had performed several dozen post-mortems herself, and when it was all over and done with I wondered what she’d make of my own entrails.
In truth, none of the great experts were exciting to look at; they were mostly a collection of elderly-looking, pipe-smoking gentlemen wearing gabardine coats with battered briefcases and equally battered felt hats. None of them looked remotely like what this was: a lot of money and a great deal of trouble. And it was perhaps no more a genuine international commission of inquiry than a pathologists’ jamboree. What it was – if anyone had stopped and listened to the operetta of silence that had been written by the Nazis – was the most expensive piece of propaganda ever dreamed up by the doctor; with a little help from me, of course. I had my own reasons for that, and if things worked out, then maybe I’d have achieved something important.
When the plane landed and the experts were counted off on Sloventzik’s clipboard we learned that at the last minute Professor Cortes from Spain had decided not to come and Dr Agapito Girauta Berruguete, who was a professor of Pathological Anatomy at Madrid University, had taken his place.
This seemed to be disturbing news to Ines, who was silent all the way from the airport back to Krasny Bor. I asked her about it but she smiled a sad little smile and said it was nothing in the kind of way that made you think that there was more in it than she was prepared to tell – the way women sometimes do. It’s what makes them mysterious to men and, on occasion, infuriating too. But they will have their secrets, and there’s no good worrying at it like a dog with its teeth clenched on a piece of rag; the best thing you can do when that happens is just to let it go.
*
After leaving the experts to get themselves settled in at Krasny Bor, I drove the short distance back to the castle to send a telegram to the ministry asking them to countermand any local orders about a separate burial for Volksdeutsche Polish officers and to correct the numbers of dead in the official broadcasts. Lutz was the signaller on duty. While I was waiting for a reply from the Wilhelmstrasse, I offered him a cigarette and asked what he knew about the call-girl ring that Ribe and Quidde had been running.
‘I knew they were working some kind of racket, but I didn’t know it was girls,’ he said. ‘I thought it was army surplus, that kind of thing. Cigarettes, saccharin, a little bit of petrol.’
‘Captain Hammerschmidt from the Gestapo appears to have been a regular client,’ I said. ‘Which would explain why he was so reluctant to follow up on your initial report.’
‘I see.’
‘That might also be what got them killed,’ I added. ‘Maybe someone thought he wasn’t getting his proper cut.’ I shook my head. ‘Any ideas?’
‘None,’ admitted Lutz.
‘It didn’t bother you, for example, that you were being kept out of the action.’
‘Not enough to kill them,’ he said, calmly. ‘If that’s what you mean.’
‘It is.’
Lutz shrugged and might have said something more but for the fact that the telegraph sprang into action.
‘This looks like your reply from Berlin,’ he said, as he began to decipher the message.
When he’d finished, he turned to the typewriter.
‘No need to type it out,’ I said. ‘I can read your capital letters.’
The message was from Goebbels himself; it read:
TOP SECRET. KATYN INCIDENT HAS TAKEN SENSATIONAL TURN. SOVIETS HAVE BROKEN OFF DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS WITH POLES BECAUSE OF ‘ATTITUDE OF POLISH GOVERNMENT IN EXILE’. REUTERS ISSUED EARLIER REPORT TO THIS EFFECT. AMERICAN PUBLIC OPINION NOW DIVIDED. AM WITHHOLDING NEWS HERE IN GERMANY FOR PRESENT, HOWEVER. POLES ARE BEING BLAMED BY BRITISH GOVT FOR NAÏVELY PLAYING INTO OUR HANDS. I AWAIT MORE DEVELOPMENTS TO SEE WHAT I CAN DO WITH THIS NEWS. REPRESENTS A 100 PER CENT VICTORY FOR GERMAN PROPAGANDA. SELDOM IN THIS WAR HAS GERMAN PROPAGANDA REGISTERED SUCH A SUCCESS. WELL DONE TO YOU AND ALL CONCERNED AT KATYN WOOD. HAVE ASKED KEITEL IN CAPACITY AS CHIEF OF OKW TO ORDER VON KLUGE TO COMPLY WITH POLISH RED CROSS REQUEST REGARDING VOLKSDEUTSCHE. GOEBBELS.