by Philip Kerr
‘I’m beginning to understand Von Kluge’s indecent haste,’ I said. ‘What about the War Crimes Bureau? What about Judge Goldsche? Did you manage to contact him?’
‘Yes. But there’s not much consolation there, either.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m afraid Judge Goldsche’s hands are tied,’ said Conrad. ‘As you know the bureau is just a section within the legal department of the military High Command. He takes his orders from the international law section of the OKW and Maximilian Wagner; and Wagner – who’s been ill anyway – well, he takes his orders from Dr Rudolf Lehmann. And I’m sorry to tell you this, but Lehmann is unlikely to do anything at all. The politics are delicate here, I’m afraid, Gunther.’
‘So’s my neck.’
‘You see, recently Lehmann wrote a memo to the Foreign Office arguing that the perpetrators of French war crimes against German soldiers should be a matter left to the French courts. He also ordered a stay of all executions in France, in order to improve relations with the French government. Neither of these went down very well with some of our more senior generals in Berlin, who felt that Lehmann had overstepped himself and that these were matters for local army commanders, most of whom dislike lawyers at the best of times. And that’s not all. Rudolf Lehmann’s from Posen, just like Von Kluge; he’s an East Prussian who’s a close friend of the field marshal and owes his advancement as colonel general of the armed forces legal department to none other than Günther von Kluge. There’s no way on earth Dr Lehmann’s going to try to interfere with the way Von Kluge runs things at Army Group Centre. Not without losing his power base and main patron.’ Conrad sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Gunther, but that’s just how it is.’
I nodded and lit one of Conrad’s cigarettes. Outside it was the warmest day of the year; everyone – even the Russians – had a smile on his face as if summer was truly here at last. Everyone except me that is.
‘General von Tresckow,’ I said. ‘Speak to him, will you, please? He owes me a favour. A big Magnetophon-sized favour. You might remind him of that. And you might use those exact words. He’ll know what it means.’
‘The general is out of town since yesterday,’ said Conrad. ‘As you might know there’s a major offensive being planned north of here at a place called Kursk, and as chief operations officer of AGC he’s up there discussing logistical support with Field Marshal von Manstein and General Model. He won’t be back in Smolensk until Thursday.’
‘By which time I will have been hanged.’ I grinned. ‘Yes, I do begin to see the full extent of my predicament.’
‘I also spoke to Lieutenant Voss,’ said Conrad. ‘He is prepared to testify on your behalf.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’
‘Reluctantly.’
‘He’s afraid of angering the field marshal.’
‘Of course. The field marshal has been very supportive of the field police in this theatre. It was the field marshal who gave Voss his infantry assault badge. And who made sure that the field police were given what is considered to be a very comfortable billet at Grushtshenki.’ He shrugged. ‘Under the circumstances he’s not likely to make a very convincing witness.’
‘I don’t seem to have many friends, do I?’
‘There’s another thing,’ said Conrad.
‘Yes?’
‘Professor Buhtz – who also owes his current position to Field Marshal von Kluge, one might even go so far as to say his rehabilitation – has carried out some forensic tests on your personal Walther PPK. He’s not absolutely certain – due to a lack of proper equipment here in Smolensk, the tests have been inconclusive – but it seems there’s a possibility that your gun was used to murder Signals Corporal Quidde. It’s been suggested – by Professor Buhtz – that you might have shot Quidde.’
I shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t see that the fact that it was my gun proves anything,’ I said. ‘Von Gersdorff’s broom-handle Mauser was used to murder Dr Berruguete. Very likely Krivyenko is trying to frame me for Berruguete, in the same way that he tried to frame Colonel von Gersdorff.’
‘Yes, I do see that, captain,’ said Conrad. ‘Unfortunately Krivyenko is not the one who is on trial here. You are. And you might like to consider this as well. That Mauser was found in your hut, not Dyakov’s. Sorry, I mean Krivyenko.’
I smiled. ‘You have to admire someone’s housekeeping,’ I said. ‘Hanging me is an excellent way of sweeping a lot of our unsolved crime into the nearest mousehole.’
‘Frankly I think your only real chance is to admit that you made an error of judgement,’ said Conrad. ‘To throw yourself on the mercy of the court and admit that while you did indeed shoot Alok Dyakov, you did not mean to kill him. I don’t see any other alternative.’
‘That’s my best defence?’
‘I think so.’ He shrugged. ‘Then we’ll see about getting you off the other charges. Perhaps by then the colonel will have turned up back in Smolensk.’
‘Yes, perhaps.’
‘Look, I believe what you say. But without any evidence to support your story, proving it to the satisfaction of this court as it is convened is going to be almost impossible. It can’t be denied that there’s an element of bad timing in all of this.’
‘Not just an element.’ I let out a breath. ‘It’s the whole periodic table.’
I rubbed my neck nervously. ‘They say that the prospect of being hanged concentrates a man’s mind wonderfully. I’m not sure I’d have used the word wonderfully. But there’s certainly no doubt about the concentration. Especially when you’ve seen a few hangings yourself.’
‘You’re talking about Hermichen and Kuhr.’
‘Who else?’ I pulled my tunic collar away from my neck – it was tight – and took a long steady breath. ‘You might as well tell me. That window-frame gallows in the prison yard at Kiewerstrasse. Have they erected it again?’
‘I really don’t know,’ said Conrad.
Since he’d just come from interviewing a potential Katyn witness at the prison at Kiewerstrasse, I knew he was lying.
For a moment I had a nightmare vision of myself strangling on the gallows at Kiewerstrasse, my feet swinging loose like a flap, one shoulder reaching for the sky, my tongue hanging out of my mouth like a mollusc leaving its shell. And my heart missed a beat, and then another.
‘Do me a favour,’ I told Conrad. ‘I’m going to write a letter for Dr Kramsta. If I really do swing for this, will you see that she gets it?’
*
My court martial began in the army Kommandatura at ten a.m., in the very same room where Hermichen and Kuhr had been tried back in March before being hanged, of course. After my conversation with Field Marshal von Kluge, that had seemed a foregone conclusion – to me and to him. No doubt he was feeling the same way about these latest proceedings. I was sure of that as he entered the room with a scowl and avoided my eye altogether. I’ve sat through enough criminal trials to know that’s not a good sign. He looked at his wristwatch. That wasn’t a good sign either. Presumably he was hoping to find me guilty so that I could be hanged before lunch.
Of course I could perhaps have said one thing to disrupt my trial, although I thought it would actually do very little to save my life. My unsubstantiated allegation – the tape was now destroyed, of course – that Adolf Hitler had paid a substantial bribe in return for Von Kluge’s loyalty was hardly likely to endear me to my judge, and the chances were very strong that he would have ordered my immediate execution anyway; especially as there also remained his probable involvement in the murders of the two signalsmen from the castle who might have overheard his conversation with the leader. Surely this was the very thing he was in a hurry to cover up. Would my mentioning any of this in court actually change anything? Who among the Prussian knights and barons of the Wehrmacht would believe a peasant like me, instead of a fellow aristocrat?
No, Judge Conrad was right. My only real chance was to admit a terrible mistake – to throw myself on the mercy of the military co
urt and to confess that while I had indeed shot Alok Dyakov, twice, I had not actually meant to kill him. That much was true, at least. And surely even a field marshal could not order the execution of a German officer for merely wounding a Russian Putzer. Rape and murder was one thing; a simple case of bodily harm on an Ivan was another.
But it was soon clear that I was wrong. In spite of my plea, Von Kluge still intended to hear all of the evidence, which could only mean one thing: that he meant to hang me anyway, but needed to justify it with his Putzer’s evidence – the Russian’s story that I had actually meant to kill him.
Krivyenko, his left arm heavily bandaged and in a sling, but otherwise looking none the worse for wear, was, I have to say, a very convincing witness – as you might have expected of a man who was a major in the NKVD. From the way he talked, I had the strong impression that mine wasn’t the first show trial he had attended or given evidence in: he spoke with a show of probity that would have convinced the Inquisition. He even managed to look like he regretted having to tell the court how I had threatened and tortured him with one gunshot and then another. At one stage real tears rolled down his face as he told the court how he had genuinely feared for his life. Even I was convinced of my own guilt.
The Russian had almost finished giving his evidence when to my everlasting relief, the door at the back of the courtroom opened and Colonel von Gersdorff walked in. His entrance caused quite a stir, not because he was late but because he was accompanied by a small man in the uniform of a German admiral. Admirals were hardly common in that landlocked part of Russia. The man had white hair, a sailor’s ruddy complexion, bushy eyebrows and round shoulders. The only decoration on his rather shabby tunic was a first-class Iron Cross – as if that was really all that was needed. I guessed at once who it was, even if I didn’t recognize him myself. Von Kluge had no such problem, and he and the rest of the court stood up immediately, for the man was the head of the Abwehr after all – none other than Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. He himself was accompanied by two wire-haired dachshunds that stayed loyally at the heels of shoes that had seen better days.
‘Gentlemen, please, forgive this interruption,’ Canaris said quietly. He glanced around the room, which was now, to a man, standing at attention, and smiled gently. ‘Easy gentlemen, easy.’
The court relaxed. Everyone except Field Marshal von Kluge that is, who looked thoroughly bewildered by the arrival of Germany’s spymaster.
‘Wilhelm,’ stammered Von Kluge. ‘What a surprise. I wasn’t informed. No one – I had no idea that you were coming to Smolensk.’
‘Nor had I,’ said Canaris. ‘And to be quite frank with you, I nearly didn’t get here. My plane had to turn back to Minsk with engine trouble, and Colonel von Gersdorff here was obliged to come and fetch me in his car, which is a six-hundredkilometre round trip. But we made it, somehow. I can’t answer for the poor baron but I’m very pleased to be here.’
‘I’m fine, sir,’ said Von Gersdorff, and winked at me. ‘And after all, it’s a beautiful day.’
‘Yes, now that I’m here I’m very glad I came,’ continued Canaris. ‘For I can see that I’m not too late to play a useful part in these proceedings.’
‘You have the advantage of me, Wilhelm,’ said Von Kluge.
‘Nor for long, old fellow. Not for long.’ He pointed at a chair. ‘May I sit down?’
‘My dear Wilhelm, of course. Although if you have just travelled all that way by road then perhaps it would be better to adjourn, so that you may refresh yourself, after which you and I can talk in private.’
‘No, no.’ Canaris removed his naval officer’s cap, sat down and lit a small, pungent cigar. ‘And with all due respect, it’s not you I came to see, nor Colonel von Gersdorff, nor indeed this impudent fellow.’ Canaris pointed at me. ‘About whom I have heard a great deal during my journey.’
Von Kluge shook his head, irritably. ‘He is more than impudent, sir. He is a bare-faced liar, an unmitigated scoundrel who stands accused of trying to murder an innocent man, and a disgrace to the uniform of a German officer.’
‘In which case he should certainly be severely punished,’ said Canaris. ‘And you should proceed with this trial immediately. So please don’t stop on my account.’
‘I’m glad you agree, Wilhelm,’ said Von Kluge, sitting down again. ‘Thank you.’ He glanced over at Von Schlabrendorff and nodded at him to carry on examining his witness, but it seemed that Canaris was not yet finished speaking. Indeed, he had hardly started.
‘But I should however like to know who it is that Captain Gunther tried to kill.’
‘My Russian Putzer, sir,’ said Von Kluge. ‘He is the man with his arm in a sling now giving evidence. His name is Alok Dyakov.’
Canaris shook his head. ‘No, sir. That man’s name is not Alok Dyakov. And he could never be described as an innocent man. Not in this life. Nor perhaps the next.’ He puffed his cigar patiently.
The Russian stood up and seemed about to do something until he saw that Von Gersdorff was now pointing a gun at him.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ spluttered Von Kluge. ‘Colonel von Gersdorff? Explain yourself.’
‘All in good time, sir.’
‘I think at this stage,’ said Canaris, ‘it might be better if we cleared the court of everyone who is not immediately germane to these legal proceedings. There are things I am going to say that perhaps not everyone needs to hear, old friend.’
Von Kluge nodded curtly and stood up. ‘These proceedings are suspended,’ he said. ‘While er … Admiral Canaris … and I …’
‘You and I can stay, naturally,’ Canaris told the field marshal as men started to troop out of the room. ‘Colonel von Gersdorff, Captain Gunther, Judge Conrad – you had better stay as well, since you are somewhat pivotal to this whole matter. And you of course, Herr Dyakov. Yes, I think you had better stay for now, don’t you? After all, you’re why I came here.’
When the court was empty of all who had not been named by the admiral, Von Kluge lit a cigarette and tried to look as if he was still in control of a court martial; but in truth, everyone now knew who had the whip hand. For a moment, Canaris played with the ear of one of the dachshunds before proceeding.
‘I think you should prepare yourself for a shock, Günther,’ Canaris told Von Kluge. ‘You see, that man – the man you know as Alok Dyakov, your Putzer, is an NKVD officer, and I recognized him the moment I came into this court martial.’
‘What?’ said Von Kluge. ‘Nonsense. He used to be a schoolteacher.’
‘This man and I have met at least once before,’ said Canaris. ‘As you may know, during the Spanish Civil War I was in and out of Spain on several occasions, setting up a German intelligence network that survives to this day and continues to serve us very well. Occasionally it amused me to test myself and my fluency in Spanish by working among the Reds. And it was in Madrid that I met the man I now see in this court, although he might remember me rather better as Señor Guillermo, an Argentine businessman posing as a communist sympathizer. I went to the Soviet embassy in Madrid in January 1937 to have a meeting with him when he was Military Attaché Mikhail Spiridonovich Krivyenko. He was in Spain to help set up the international brigades on the republican side, although it’s fair to say that, as a political commissar in Barcelona and Malaga, he succeeded in shooting as many of them as he did of the people on the side of the falangists. Isn’t that right, Mikhail? Anarchists. Trotskyites. The POUM. Anyone who wasn’t a Stalinist, really. You’ve killed all sorts.’
Krivyenko stayed silent.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Von Kluge. ‘It’s fantastic.’
‘Oh, I can assure you it’s quite true,’ said Canaris. ‘The colonel has Krivyenko’s NKVD file to prove it. I imagine that’s why he tried to murder Captain Gunther. Because he realized that the captain was onto him. And he certainly murdered the unfortunate Dr Berruguete, because of what he’d learned about him while he’d been a commissar in Spain. I believe
he may also have murdered several others as well since we Germans captured Smolensk. Isn’t that true, Mikhail?’
Now, Krivyenko’s eyes were on the exit. But Von Gersdorff’s Walther pistol was in his way.
‘And before these latest crimes, he and another man called Blokhin were often in Smolensk with a team of NKVD executioners, murdering the enemies of the revolution and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Including, I’ll hazard, several thousand Polish officers in the spring of 1940. That’s what Krivyenko is best at: murder. Always has been. Oh, he’s very clever. For one thing he’s an excellent linguist: speaks Russian, Spanish, German, even Catalan – that’s a very hard language for anyone to learn. I never did. But murder is Krivyenko’s speciality. You see, he failed in Spain, and failure is very hard to explain to a tyrant like Stalin – to all tyrants, really. Which explains why he’s just a major now when he was a colonel back in 1937. I expect he’s had to carry out an awful lot of murders to make up for his failings in Spain. Isn’t that right, Mikhail? You were almost shot upon your return to Russia, were you not?’
Krivyenko said nothing, but it was plain from his expression that he knew the game was up.
‘As soon as Colonel von Gersdorff told me about Krivyenko, I knew it had to be the same fellow. Which meant that I simply had to come down here to Smolensk and shall we say pay my respects? You see, what none of you can know is that Colonel Krivyenko was directly responsible for the death of one of my best agents in Spain – a man by the name of Eberhard Funk. Funk was shot, but not before he had been relentlessly and brutally tortured by this man before us. With a knife. That’s how he prefers to kill. Oh he’ll use a gun, if he has to. But Krivyenko likes to feel his victim’s last breath on his face.’ Canaris puffed his cigar again. ‘He was a good man, Funk. A distant relation of our Reich minister of economic affairs, you know. I honestly never thought that I’d be able to tell Walther Funk that the man who tortured and killed Eberhard had finally been caught.’