The Nero Decree

by Greg Williams

  They passed down the road, hurrying while trying to remain inconspicuous. There was a loud rumbling in the distance—another damaged building surrendering to the laws of gravity and collapsing. Anja moved them off the main street in order to take a shortcut. She calculated that they could be at the station in twenty minutes if they kept moving. They would see what the situation was. If it appeared hopeless they would head southwest on foot. They might be able to reach Potsdam by nightfall, if they were lucky.

  Anja’s thoughts were interrupted by a blast of fear: The man who had been following them appeared no more than ten yards before them from a side street.

  Anja didn’t hesitate; she grabbed her niece and ran.

  “Wait,” the man shouted, his voice thick and gravelly.

  “Go,” she said to Nadine, “just go.” The two of them stumbled across a pile of fragmented bricks and through what had once been a small courtyard. They could hear the man grunting with exertion behind them. They ducked up the side of a building, attempting to confuse him, but the man was upon them, grabbing Anja. They tumbled to the ground, rolling inside an abandoned structure. Most of its entrances had been boarded up, but someone had pulled a piece of corrugated iron aside to create an opening.

  Anja grabbed the man’s face, attempting to gouge his eyes, but he was too strong—he held her wrists, his eyes purposeful.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said firmly.

  “Stop!” came a shout. The man and Anja paused. They turned to see Nadine standing close behind. In her hand she held a knife that Anja recognized from their kitchen. “Let her go or I will kill you,” Nadine said, moving the blade to within an inch of the man’s spine.

  “You don’t understand,” the man explained.

  Anja pulled herself away from him. He was sweating from the exertion.

  “You are Anja and Nadine, no?”

  Neither of them answered.

  “I am a friend of Johann’s,” he explained, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  “I came from the hospital at the front where we were both working.”

  Anja felt something bloom inside her. Johann was alive still. Or he had been yesterday, at least.

  “He asked me to give you this,” the man said. He reached inside his coat. Nadine pressed the blade so hard against him that it was close to puncturing the cloth of his wool coat. One mistake and he was dead.

  “It’s okay,” he said over his shoulder, trying to reassure the girl. “I’ll remove it slowly. It’s not dangerous.”

  He produced a crumpled envelope and handed it to Anja. She held it for a moment, examining the handwriting. She looked at the man and then at her niece.

  “He’s alive,” she said to Nadine.

  “Uncle?” the girl asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Otto,” the man said, extending his hand. “I was stationed with Johann.”

  “I’ve heard your name,” Anja said. She had a dim memory of Johann taking a bottle of something to an Otto the previous Christmas. “When did he give you this?” Anja asked.

  “Two days ago,” Otto replied, examining the remnants of a fireplace.

  “And how was he?” Anja said suspiciously.

  Otto looked at her, not sure what to say. “He’s as well as can be expected,” he said diplomatically.

  Anja nodded. There was no point in pursuing the line of questioning. It was implicit in what Otto had said that, if you were alive, you were as well as could be expected. There was no gray area of mood or physical well-being; you were either alive or you were dead.

  “Is he coming to Berlin?” Nadine asked.

  “I don’t know,” Otto said. “Perhaps there may be some news.…” He nodded at the envelope.

  “What are you doing here?” Anja asked Otto, pulling the envelope apart.

  “Johann asked me to deliver this and to see how you were.”

  “No, I don’t mean that,” Anja said, scanning the letter. “I mean Berlin—what are you doing back in the city?”

  “There is a grave shortage of doctors at the hospital,” Otto said.

  “Well?” Nadine said to Anja, who was engrossed in the letter.

  “He’s coming,” Anja said. Nadine clapped her hands. “But it might not be for a couple of days.”

  “But we have nowhere to stay.”

  “Of course you do,” Otto said sternly. “You must stay with me.”

  “That’s very kind,” Anja said. “But we can’t possibly…”

  She wanted to keep moving, to head to the station, but she looked at Nadine—exhausted after a night in the bunker—and realized that the girl needed some respite. A day of rest would allow them to face what was to come. Besides, there was something in Johann’s letter that compelled them to stay.…

  “I absolutely insist,” Otto continued. “I have no water or electricity, but there’s a hand pump on the street and I have a bucket.”

  “That’s very kind,” Anja said after a beat.

  “Good,” Otto replied. “That’s settled then.”

  “We’ll make do, won’t we, Nadine?” Anja said. She had folded the letter away and put it in her pocket.

  “What does it say, Aunt?” Nadine asked.

  Anja swallowed. “I’ll fill you in on the details later,” she said, raising a smile for Nadine.

  “We should go back to our apartment and chalk a message for Uncle to let him know that we are with Otto.”

  “I’m afraid that we can’t do that now—I will try tomorrow,” Anja said. She was trying to sound businesslike and in control of the situation. “We should go.…”

  “But, Auntie,” Nadine interrupted, putting her hand on Anja’s arm, “we need to let him know where we are. How else will he find us?”

  “He’ll find us,” Anja said quietly, as if she didn’t believe it herself. “We have a day to leave the message before he comes.”

  “I don’t understand why we can’t leave him a—”

  “The Gestapo,” said Anja briskly, waving the letter in her niece’s direction. She turned to face Nadine. “They’re looking for us. They’re also looking for him. We can’t ever go back to the apartment. They will surely be waiting for us. I’m surprised no one was there this morning.”

  “But why, Auntie?” said Nadine. She kicked an upturned pail gently.

  “It’s not important now,” Anja said, taking her hand. “I will tell you later, once we are safe.”

  The girl nodded and lifted her shoulders up and down, as if shrugging off a disappointment. In the distance there was another explosion—a bomb with a timer going off.

  “We should split up,” Otto suggested. The Gestapo will be searching for a woman and a girl together, right? They’re less likely to stop you and ask for your papers if you’re apart.”

  “That makes sense,” Anja said. “Nadine, you walk ahead with Herr…”

  “Deitch,” Otto said. “Otto Deitch.”

  “I will follow behind you,” Anja continued.

  The three of them moved toward the exit. Anja tugged at Nadine’s sleeve and looked into her eyes.

  “Promise me one thing,” she said somberly. “If you see that they’ve stopped me just keep walking. Do not say anything. Do not stop. Just keep walking.”

  Nadine nodded. “I understand,” she said, and moved toward the light and out onto the street with Otto.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Anja called after the girl, suddenly anxious about seeing her go. She waited a few moments before following them.

  As she walked she kept her eyes locked on Nadine, never allowing the girl to leave her sight for a moment. She wondered if she could really trust Otto. He had the letter from Johann, but she knew little else of him. No one was to be trusted. She needed to keep focused, to place every footstep carefully to ensure that they weren’t swallowed by the enormity of what they faced. She tried to console herself: At least Johann was alive and was attempting to find them in Berlin. Quite how he was proposing to reach th
e city, she had no idea, but Anja had always known her husband to have enormous reserves of determination. She had seen how the war had crushed so many people, had ground them, literally, into the earth. She knew that Johann was one of those who would never give up. Quietly and methodically, he would do what he needed to cling on to what—and those—he loved.

  The letter delivered baffling and terrifying news.

  Johann wrote of a half brother, Dieter, who would have Johann and his family killed at a moment’s notice. Johann had always told her that he had no siblings; his mother had died while he was an infant, and his father had perished of an illness when Johann had been at medical college. Why had he told her this lie? Did he have a family whom she had never met? Surely that was an absurd notion.

  She had to cling to a single thought—she trusted her husband; he was a good man and would never seek to harm her. On the contrary, he had done all he could to make her life fulfilled and happy.

  Then a nasty, toxic feeling surfaced: What if the war had changed him? What if the Johann she knew and loved had suddenly become corrupted by the struggle to stay alive?

  Walking warily along the streets, as the sun battled its way through the dusty miasma that surrounded her, Anja tried not to think too hard about it. She was scared and desperate enough without having to carry another heavy burden. The danger from the authorities scared her witless—she and Nadine had enough to contend with without glancing over their shoulders constantly, watching for the Gestapo. She could hardly believe what she was thinking—that losing their home in the air raid might have been a blessing. If the building was still standing the police would know where to find them both. Now they might even believe that she and Nadine had perished in the wreckage. She would do everything she could to keep hidden until they fled the city. It seemed they would be safe at Otto’s—no one would think to look for them there.

  She thought about the final part of Johann’s letter. He had warned her that, should he not arrive within three days, then they must leave, no matter what. Anja passed a group of guest workers loading corpses onto a cart—an emaciated horse waited patiently, its head bowed almost to the ground, as if it were too weak to support its neck.

  As much as she ached to see her husband, she would wait no longer than he had suggested. That is, she thought, if she was still alive to make the decision.

  13

  Dieter hobbled from the staff car that he had commandeered to bring him to the field hospital. He only had hazy memories of the place: sounds, colors, and voices more than the specifics of the geography. He limped through the mud, his walking stick useless as it sunk deep into the sticky mire.

  “Where will I find Kommandant Henke?” he demanded of a passing worker.

  “In the administration area,” the man said, pointing to a series of green tents that were set up beneath camouflaged webbing. Dieter slithered off in search of his quarry before the man could say anything else. The Sturmbannführer didn’t notice the bony orderlies avoiding his path as he picked his way across the ground, the collar of his greatcoat turned up against the driving rain. He was enjoying the downpour—the rainwater cooled the burned skin on his face.

  Dieter pushed aside the flap of the tent to find Henke bent over a large white metal bowl containing some scummy water. There was a towel around his neck and his head was covered in white soapsuds.

  “Kommandant Henke?” Dieter said, by way of announcement. “Dieter Schnell, Reich Main Security Office. I am here to conduct an investigation.”

  “I see,” Henke said. He appeared unimpressed and bent down over the bowl again and continued to shave his head. “We have a terrible problem with lice here,” he offered by way of explanation.

  “Time is of the essence in my investigation,” Dieter continued, listening to the noise of the razor scratching against the stubble on Henke’s head. “I do hope that the Kommandant will be able to find the time to consider my questions with the necessary thoroughness.”

  “Of course,” Henke continued. He gestured at a fold-up chair with his razor. “Please go ahead and sit down. Would you like someone to fetch you water or some terrible coffee?”

  “Johann Schultz,” Dieter said, ignoring Henke’s offer. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Henke considered this while Dieter pulled out a small black notebook and flipped it open. “It’s hard to remember exactly,” he replied. “Time here has a tendency to blur. He was asked to go to some ceremony in Berlin. I couldn’t spare him.”

  “Did he give you any indication that he might not be of sound mind?” Dieter asked.

  “On the contrary,” Henke said. “He continued to be a huge asset to this hospital because of his calmness and hard work.” Henke cleaned his razor in the water and looked up from the washbowl. “I believe that it was he who treated you.”

  “There were two men with me,” Dieter said. “One of them is missing and one is alleged to have committed suicide.…”

  “I think that being found hanging from your own belt in the latrine is a little more than an allegation,” Henke said.

  Dieter wanted to smash the smug little man’s face. He clearly had small regard for Dieter’s rank or mission.

  “Has there been no sign of Oberscharführer Lehman?”

  “Why should there be?” Henke asked. “How do we know that he didn’t go off somewhere else?”

  “The intelligence I have was that he was last seen at your field hospital, Kommandant,” Dieter said pointedly. “Where else would you suggest I conduct my investigation?”

  “Sturmbannführer,” Henke started, while pouring water from a jug onto his head. “While I would love the resources to send out search parties to see if the Oberscharführer is somewhere in western Prussia, I’m afraid that we are distracted by other matters.”

  Dieter cocked his head to the side.

  “I should remind the Kommandant that I am conducting a criminal investigation,” he said carefully. “Cooperation in this matter isn’t at your discretion; it’s required by law.”

  Henke appeared undaunted. He took the small towel that had been hanging around his neck and rubbed his head. When he was finished, he carefully laid the towel out to dry.

  “One of the problems we have at the moment is getting clean laundry,” he explained, never taking his eyes off Dieter. “It’s a fairly basic requirement for a hospital.”

  “The autopsy of Obersturmführer Ostermann,” Dieter persisted. “What were your findings?”

  Henke picked up a shirt and began to dress.

  “There was no autopsy,” he said while securing the top button. His tone was offhand. He had had enough of Dieter.

  “No autopsy?” Dieter said incredulously. He had witnessed how Ostermann had died, but he wanted to try and intimidate Henke in order to prize other information from him.

  “Are you serious?” Henke said, his temper rising. “Sturmbannführer Schnell, I can only help you if you ensure that your questions remain within the bounds of reality. Last week I had close to one thousand men here. This field hospital has the beds for less than a quarter of that. I’ve managed to get most of them away to positions behind the front line, because the last thing we are going to need once the Soviet artillery opens up is to be caring for patients when there is work to be done in triage. This is my actuality, Sturmbannführer.”

  Henke picked up his jacket. “I am willing to do all I can to assist you in your inquiry,” he said. “But I cannot conduct autopsies, nor can I speculate as to the whereabouts of an officer under your command. Is there anything else?”

  Dieter looked intently at Henke. The Kommandant could see the anger flickering across his face.

  “Doctor Schultz,” he said menacingly. “He is no longer under your command?”

  For the first time Henke showed vulnerability. “No,” he said, looking around for his cap. “He hasn’t been present for several days now.”

  “And is it unusual that officers under your command go missing?
” Dieter continued.

  “Surely you know this already?” Henke said. “Schultz took the vehicle that you and your officers arrived in. He hasn’t been seen since.”

  Dieter felt a sudden pain running up the injuries on his left side. His half brother had taken the Kübelwagen. Could the documents have been inside, or was this just coincidence? And where had Johann gone with the vehicle? Surely he would be arrested by the Feldgendarmerie before he got too far. Dieter had asked that all field reports from Feldgendarmerie units in surrounding sectors be forwarded to his newly appointed assistant, a decrepit former Gestapo interrogator named Harald Kuefer, who had been sequestered for the investigation. Dieter had little faith in him. The man appeared to be suffering from chronic lung disease and was barely able to maintain a conversation due to a debilitating cough.

  “And you informed the appropriate authorities as soon as Schultz went missing?”

  “I did,” Henke said, standing up. “Sturmbannführer, I really must go now; I have ward inspections.”

  “I understand,” Dieter said. “Perhaps the Kommandant wouldn’t mind if I accompanied him?”

  Henke didn’t comment. He held open the flap of his tent for Dieter to head back into the rain.

  “Your injuries have healed remarkably quickly,” Henke commented once they were outside. The rain had let up a little.

  “I have nothing to compare my recovery to,” Dieter said. “I continue in the only way I can—by serving my Führer to the best of my ability.”

  Henke looked over at the SS man, incredulous that he could make such a pronouncement without any hint of irony.

  “It was Schultz who worked on you when you arrived in triage,” Henke said. “Why would you imagine that someone who saved the life of one senior SS officer would want to end the lives of others? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I would like to talk to other doctors who would have known Schultz,” Dieter said, casting his eyes suspiciously around the complex.

  “Be my guest,” Henke said. “The officers’ quarters are over there.” He pointed to a tent about a hundred yards away on the edge of a tree line. “But be warned. Many of them are working more than twenty hours a day. You’ll be lucky to catch many of them, and the ones you do will be keener on sleeping than answering your questions. I will have my adjutant deliver you Schultz’s personal effects.”