die Stunde X

by Shaun Stafford

  Jerome knew there really was only one place left for him to run.

  To Ben’s.

  The man who had expressed concern at the Germans’ treatment of the street-trash; to the man who had warned him yesterday to be careful; to the man who seemed to have a dislike for all things German.

  He didn’t know if he could trust Ben, but his mind was made up. Ben would help him.

  And if he didn’t, well, he would be no worse off than he was now.

  Jerome jumped off the swing and mapped out a route in his head to Nürnberg Platz, where Ben lived.

  Soon, he would be safe.

  Or dead.

  22

  Ben Fabian stared blankly at the television screen as it showed yet another badly dubbed German sitcom. Annoyed with the lack of humour, he reached across the sofa and grabbed the TV guide. Glancing through the listings, he realized there was nothing better on and he threw the magazine onto the floor.

  He rubbed his eyes, then his face, and then looked at the VCR’s digital clock. It was only 9.30pm, but there was nothing for him to do. Nothing to watch on TV, nothing to listen to on the radio. He closed his eyes and thought about his life – there was a lot to think about.

  He had been to the United States of America once, when he was nineteen. It had been an experience for him, in more ways than one. It opened his eyes to the fact that there was more to life than work. There were interesting TV programmes, great movies, exciting books, rock songs that could be listened to, that were jaunty and cheap, and had no hidden message. There was very little censorship in the US, unlike in the German Reich, where everything had to be approved by the State. Things were just so different in the US. He was even attracted to the idea of defecting. Over the years, there had been hundreds of defections. One more wouldn’t have made the news. But Ben was there for a purpose – and that purpose required him to return to England.

  He still thought of the US, though, of its easy-going ways. Everything was so fair, the State helped those who were poorer and people were free to pick and choose where they worked, where they lived and how they lived their lives.

  The Germans ensured that all the English worked for the State, in one of the State-owned factories, building cars – Volkswagens, Mercedes, BMWs, Audis – or manufacturing electrical goods, TVs, VCRs, CD players, computers. Germany was the most technologically advanced nation in the world, but it exported very little, just as it imported very little. Trade embargos by the Russo-American Pact mean that it could not sell to its two largest opponents, or their allies. In fact, the Reich generally only traded with Japan. Not that the German economy was suffering – far from it.

  The Reich was, after all, the largest nation in the world.

  The Germans also ensured that all the English lived in particular areas, segregated from the German community in the State. Very few English citizens owned large houses, because few had high-flying careers that paid high enough salaries to buy such properties. There were few opportunities for English men and women. The Germans had the best jobs because, when all was said and done, the German Reich was their country. Those who were citizens of the outlying states – England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, France, Spain, Denmark, even the Nazis’ ally Italy, the list was endless – those citizens were thought of probably no better than slaves, there to do the Germans’ bidding.

  And those who tried to step out of line were quickly put in their place.

  And the place for people like that were the Konzentrationslagers, or Konzlags. There were four of them in England, the nearest one being Konzlag Chigwell, each of them capable of holding a maximum of 20,000 prisoners. Space for 80,000 dissidents. And the camps were rarely ever full – prisoners didn’t last long there.

  Whenever they got close to their maximum limits, more of the prisoners were gassed. Gassing was the quickest, cheapest, cleanest and most convenient method of killing unwanted prisoners when they had outlived their usefulness.

  The Germans had come a long way since the heady days of the late Thirties and early Forties, when millions of Jews, gypsies and undesirables, or Untermenschen, were gassed. In those days, the gas took minutes to take effect, with the hapless victims clawing at the walls to escape. Now, those poor unfortunates would’ve been dead within ten seconds, such was the extreme concentration of the lethal gas.

  The inmates of the Forties were gassed by the hundreds. Now, they were gassed in groups of ten, in small rooms designed specifically for the purpose. Trapdoors in the floor ensured that the corpses were dropped down into a pit beneath the gas chamber. Once sealed, the pit doubled as a crematorium, where the bodies could be burnt to ashes.

  Everything was more advanced, more efficient and, perversely, less barbaric.

  Ben knew all about the gas chambers.

  He knew all about the fucking Germans, the murdering, fucking Germans. The thing was, there were still people in the Reich, people in England, who didn’t believe that the Germans committed atrocities, who swore blind that the Germans never murdered the Jews in their millions. Some gullible fools still believed that the Madagascar Plan had been initiated, that the Jews were living the life of Riley off the coast of Africa.

  People like that made Ben sick.

  Hadn’t they seen the Orpo rounding up street-trash? Or didn’t they count as people? Christ, some English people even used the term Untermenschen to describe undesirable people, which really pissed him off. Hadn’t any of their neighbours or relatives ever been hassled by the Gestapo? Hadn’t any of these idiots lost friends at the Volksgerichtshof? Or did these people believe justice had been righteously served upon traitors?

  Ben got to his feet. Thinking about the bloody Germans was only raising his blood pressure. He would go to sleep, try to forget about the Germans. Until tomorrow, when he would get up, go to work, and slog his guts out for the bastards.

  Ben sneered as he walked into the hallway.

  A knock at the door startled him, and he glanced at his watch, remembering that it was around nine-thirty as he did so. It was a little late for people to be calling on him, but it was not unusual. It had happened before.

  But there could be another, more sinister reason behind the visit. It could be somebody he would not be happy to see.

  The Gestapo.

  Heart pounding in his chest, head throbbing, he walked up to the front door, grasped the latch and twisted. Letting his breath out in a loud exhale, he opened the door.

  Jerome stood on his doorstep.

  23

  Ben stared at Jerome with a frown as he let him into his house, closing the front door behind him. His eyes quickly fell to Jerome’s clothes, and the massive bloodstains on them.

  “Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell happened to you?”

  “I … I need a place to stay, Ben. Just for a while, until I get my head straight.”

  “Uh, sure, yeah, sure,” Ben said, grabbing Jerome. He felt the front of Jerome’s jacket. “Is that stuff dry?” He felt that it was. “Come on, in here,” he said, leading Jerome into the front room. “Sit down. Do you want a drink?”

  Jerome shook his head.

  Ben noticed that it wasn’t the only part of Jerome that was shaking.

  “What happened, mate?”

  “I’m in big trouble, Ben. Fucking big trouble.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Listen, I’m involving you in all this. If you want me to go–”

  “I’ll help you out, Jerome, if you tell me what the hell happened. I need to know.”

  Jerome sat down on the sofa. Ben took one of the armchairs. “I need … I need to know that I can trust you.”

  “Jerome, you can trust me.”

  “Some people would say that, Ben, and then call the fucking Orpo the minute my back’s turned.”

  “Not me,” assured Ben. “Now, come on, tell me.”

  “When I got home after you dropped me off, my family was waiting.” Jerome closed his eyes, wiped the tears from them. He’d really fucke
d up this time. He continued, not looking Ben in the eyes. “They said my Dad was at Meredith’s Funeral Directors. I went round to see them – they wouldn’t let me look at the body.”

  “That’s the usual practice, Jerome, in execution cases.”

  “I wanted to see him, for Christ’s sake. He was my fucking Dad. I wanted to see him. I had a right to know what those bastards did to him, I had a right to know how he died.”

  “So what happened?”

  “They fucked me off, threatened to call the Orpo.”

  “And?”

  “So I left,” Jerome said, pausing for a few moments. “I went back an hour or so later, probably longer. The place was all closed up … I found a way in.”

  “You broke in?”

  “There was an open window, I found a ladder, got inside.” Jerome swallowed, leaned back in the sofa and scratched his head. “I … I found my Dad’s coffin. It was sealed, just like they said it was. Only I had a crowbar. I got it open …” He gagged as he thought about his father’s body, about how the head had been removed, how it would’ve flopped around in the coffin. It probably would’ve rattled all the way to the grave. He shuddered. “My Dad was inside, dead. They’d beaten him, he was covered in bruises, but … but the worst thing … they’d … they’d chopped his head off. It was just … just lying there, not even at the right fucking angle. I mean, don’t those fucking people have any respect?”

  “Take it easy,” Ben said softly. “So, you found your dad’s body. How come you’re covered in blood?”

  “Somebody turned up.” Ben’s eyes widened. Blood and an intruder could only mean one thing. Somebody had got slotted. “A security guard, I think. He must’ve seen the ladder outside.”

  “Jesus, Jerome, what did you do?”

  “He pulled a gun, we fought, you know … and the gun, it went off.” Jerome fiddled with his fingers, the way Campbell had been doing earlier that evening, when things were … well, not exactly normal, but … ordinary, under the circumstances. “At first, I thought … I thought he’d shot me. I went hot, felt all this fucking blood. Then I realized – the gun had gone off, blown his guts fucking away.”

  “He was killed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit,” Ben muttered. “Shit.”

  “It’s bad news.”

  “It’s not good.”

  “What am I gonna do?”

  “I’ll tell you what you’re not going to do,” Ben said, getting to his feet. “You’re not going to go home. That’s the first place they’ll look for you.”

  “That’s what I thought. That’s why I came here.”

  “Well, at least you’re thinking on your feet.”

  “I’m fucked, ain’t I?”

  “Your prospects ain’t good, Jerome,” Ben said. “I can’t bullshit you. Come on, I’ll fix you up some clothes, you can take a bath, get cleaned up. You’ve even got blood in your fucking hair.”

  “If they catch me here–”

  “Why should they catch you here?”

  “I don’t know. We work together?”

  “You work in close proximity with a hundred people, Jerome,” reminded Ben. “Anyway, we’ll cross that bridge if, and when, we come to it. You’re not an outlaw yet. Not until your face is in the papers.”

  “And it will be,” Jerome said, standing.

  “Without a doubt. For fuck’s sake, Jerome, what the hell were you thinking? You’ve truly fucked this up.”

  “I know,” Jerome said miserably, and followed Ben up to the bathroom. Ben sorted him out some old clothes, a pair of jeans, an old sweatshirt, some socks. They’d fit, and they were clean.

  He left them in the bathroom for Jerome, and then left Jerome alone in the bathroom, with only the sound of the running taps for comfort.

  As Jerome sat on the toilet waiting for the bath to fill, he wondered what Ben was doing. Perhaps he was calling the Orpo. Perhaps they’d arrive before he’d even chanced to get in the bath.

  He didn’t know who he could trust, and he certainly didn’t know if he could trust Ben.

  Finally, the bath was full, and Jerome peeled off his clothes and stepped into the boiling water. Some of the guard’s blood had soaked through to his skin, and as it came off his body, it gave a pinkish tinge to the water.

  Jerome lay back in the bath and closed his eyes, sweat pouring from his face.

  He tried not to think of Ben, tried not think of him picking up the telephone, dialling the Orpo, telling them he had their fugitive captive in his house.

  He tried not to think of such things because he didn’t want to. He wanted to think that he could trust at least one person.

  He wanted to believe that Ben was that person.

  Downstairs, Ben wasn’t phoning the Orpo.

  He was thinking. Thinking about the fugitive upstairs in his bathroom, washing the blood of a dead man from his body. He was thinking about how long Jerome would be able to evade capture.

  More than that, he was thinking of Jerome’s family, because if the Nazis couldn’t find the murderer, they would exact their revenge upon the murderer’s family.

  And he knew what form that revenge would take.

  24

  The black BMW pulled up behind an Orpo van with its roof lights flashing, sweeping beams of blue light across the street. A number of Orpo officers were milling around, their MP5s slung lazily across their chests. They were not exactly ready for action, but they didn’t really expect any action. The action, it seemed, was long since over.

  Klaus Rauter climbed out of the passenger seat of the BMW, instructing his driver to wait. Behind him, SS-Obersturmführer Loritz jumped out of the back seat and followed Rauter.

  Rauter fumbled in his pocket for his identification card as the Orpo leutnant approached to block his way into the building. The leutnant would know Rauter was something to do with the Polizei just by looking at the car, but he wouldn’t know exactly what.

  “SS- Standartenführer Rauter, Geheime Staatspolizei.”

  “Heil Führer!” the leutnant said, snapping to attention and saluting.

  “Heil Führer,” Rauter said casually, pocketing his ID. “This is my assistant, SS-Obersturmführer Loritz.”

  “Herr Obersturmführer,” the leutnant said, saluting and adding, “Heil Führer!”

  “Heil Führer,” Loritz mumbled, looking past the green overalls of the Orpo officer.

  “Who is in charge of the investigation here, Herr Leutnant?” Rauter demanded.

  “Kriminaloberinspektor Löhr, Herr Standartenführer.”

  “And where would we find him?” asked Rauter, fishing in his pockets for a packet of cigarettes. He took one out the packet, shoved it between his lips and then lit it with a lighter he’d withdrawn from his other pocket.

  “Inside.”

  “Thank you” Rauter said, and he and Loritz stepped around the Orpo officers and headed to the entrance of the building. An ambulance was parked outside the front doors, its rear doors open, green lights flashing, contrasting with the blue lights form the Orpo wagon. As they stepped into the building, a wailing siren screamed. Another Orpo wagon was arriving.

  Rauter was a short man, somewhat overweight, though not obese. He wore a hat which hid his thick, fair hair. His eyes were a steel grey that made his pale face seem even more harsh and cold. He was fast approaching fifty, and knew that he had probably risen about as high as he could through the ranks of the Gestapo, but that didn’t concern him. Although he enjoyed his work, he didn’t envisage working until he dropped. He could retire at fifty-five, and he had almost decided that he would. It all depended upon how things went in the six years or so in between.

  Meredith’s Funeral Directors was brightly lit, all of its lights on. A couple of Orpo officers stood in the corridor, and they directed Rauter and Loritz to a door at the end. They found themselves in the chapel of rest block, and from there, they found the chapel of rest in question.

  Rauter stepped up to a
man dressed in a smart suit, and showed him his ID. “I am SS-Standartenführer Rauter, Geheime Staatspolizei. I am–”

  “Heil Führer!”

  “Heil Führer. I am looking for Kriminaloberinspektor Löhr.”

  “Over there,” the man said, pointing across the small room.

  Kriminaloberinspektor Löhr was questioning an elderly man, notebook in his hand. On the floor lay two bodies, one naked, decapitated, the other wearing the uniform of a private security firm. A pistol lay on the guard’s belly.

  “Herr Kriminaloberinspektor?” Rauter said. Löhr turned to face him, wearing a disdainful expression.

  “Yes?”

  “SS-Standartenführer Rauter.”

  “Gestapo?” Rauter nodded his head. “I wondered when you would turn up,” Löhr muttered, closing his notebook. “You are taking over this case?”

  “This is could be a matter of State security.”

  “Hmm,” Löhr said, sneering. He turned to the elderly gentleman. “Thank you for your assistance, Herr Meredith. I will leave you with these officers for the Geheime Staatspolizei. They may have more questions for you.”

  “Wait there for the moment, Herr Meredith,” instructed Rauter, then to Löhr he said, “Can I have a word, Herr Kriminaloberinspektor?” The two of them stepped out of the small room, stood in the deserted, but brightly lit, corridor.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me what in Christ’s name happened here,” Rauter said, dragging from his cigarette, and flicking the ash on the floor of the corridor.

  “Well, it seems it all started when Meredith’s took delivery of an executed prisoner.”

  “One of ours?”

  “I believe so. Ross Varley?”

  “It rings no bells,” Rauter said, shaking his head and taking a drag from his cigarette. “Loritz!” he called. The officer came out of the chapel of rest.