‘I never thought of you as vain.’
‘Some of us have standards to uphold.’
‘Some of us fight for our country. We do not have time for such pomp.’
They set off in the truck with Theo driving, Walter sits upright, mannequin-like beside him. Peter is again on the floor, rolled in the quilt and sleeping deeply. This time there is no need for Walter’s pills.
Grünbaum’s map proves invaluable. The site is in blackout, there are no lights and many turnings. At military checkpoints the mere mention of the name Kriminalinspektor Grünbaum gets them waved through without fuss.
‘Cross the railway,’ Walter says. ‘Then turn right.’
Despite the blackout elsewhere the railway yards are lit brightly and there is much movement. Wagons coupling and uncoupling. Men working.
‘Slow down,’ Walter grumbles. ‘Or you will kill us all.’
In the poor light Theo sees, ahead of him, what appears to be a tunnel. As he gets closer he realises it is an arch in a long wall. Above it, and to either side of it, are windows. It is a watchtower, of sorts.
‘Do I drive through the arch?’
Walter leans forward and peers through the windscreen. ‘Not unless this truck has railway wheels.’ He studies the paper Grünbaum gave him. ‘According to this scribble the SS barracks are off to the right. There is still some way to go. Keep driving.’
Theo was expecting more barrack huts. What they eventually come to are substantial brick buildings that remind Theo of those at Potsdam. Walter’s friend is waiting at the main entrance, and as the truck approaches he comes down the wide steps. Walter jumps down and runs to him. There is laughing, swearing and back-slapping. He grabs the man’s arm and hauls him to the cab. Theo has the cab door open and they both look up at him.
‘Manfred my friend, my driver is the distinguished submariner Theodor Volker, he is my aide. Do not worry, he will not be trampling through your rooms in his disgusting boots. He will not be staying with us. He has other matters to attend to.’
Ortmann has been drinking. He looks Theo up and down. Realising he is an officer he decides to salute him.
‘A submariner, yes, poor bastard. And I thought this place was a shit posting!’
The two men walk away. After a few steps Walter turns, calling to Theo that there is no need for him to return, that his good friend Manfred will provide transport.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ he shouts. ‘So do not wait up for me.’
More laughter. Theo knows these reunions, knows that by morning Walter will be unable to stand up.
Seeking somewhere to turn the truck, Theo drives on. The road he is on is narrow and has been cleared of snow, it is piled high on one side of the road. When his headlights allow, he gets glimpses, over the snow piles, of snow clad, flat fields. His view in the other direction is obscured by a high mesh fence laced with snow.
Whoever cleared the road went only so far. Faced with a wall of snow across the road Theo slithers to a stop. There is nowhere to go. In a rare moment of despair he holds his head in his hands. To reverse such a long distance is impossible, his mirrors are iced up and behind him is blackness. Despite this he attempts, and fails, to turn the truck in the road. With the truck jammed at an angle he sees in its headlights something he missed before – a gap in the fence.
The gap is deliberate, torn down to allow access. Beyond the gap are the remains of long barrack huts, some with no roofs, others with broken walls. Timbers from them have been stacked for removal. Theo eased the truck through the gap. The wind has risen and snow starts to drift, it lifts from the ground, skimming along it like windblown sand. The truck’s wipers have trouble coping, they judder and bend.
Still there is nowhere to turn. Now on the inside of the fence and no longer on a road, Theo keeps going. It is a low-gear grind through deep snow. Instead of finding what he hopes for – another gap in the fence – a second fence closes in on the other side of the track. The track is not made for vehicles this size and the further he drives the narrower it becomes, he is sandwiched between them. This second fence, he realises, has close-strung barbed wire on tall concrete posts. Some of the posts have unlit electric lamps with curved, vulture-neck brackets.
The truck slithers sideways. Though its headlights are masked, the blanket of unblemished snow reflects their light and Theo sees the posts clearly, sees clusters of brown ceramic pots. Electrical insulators. The fences are electrified. If the truck slides again, if it touches the wire, he and his boy will die. He grips the steering wheel more firmly than ever and drives on, slowly and nervously. Inside the second fence there are more huts. Like the others, they are deserted.
The fences have gone; though all is still white, deep snow has been cleared; to the left side of the truck is the long building Theo saw when he arrived, he is on the other side of it and in his path, some way ahead, is the rail track that runs through the arch. It is brighter here; far to his right are railway sidings, brightly lit.
As he gets close to the railway lines he brakes gently. The wheels of the truck lock and it slides forwards, coming to a stop with its front wheels on the track. He tries to back up but the wheels spin and the truck slips sideways. From the back comes a hammering sound he’s not heard before, a hammering that continues even when he turns off the engine. In a frosted side mirror he can just make out the dark shape of a man – a soldier – hitting the truck’s side with the butt of a rifle.
Peter, swaddled in quilt, stirs but does not wake. Now there are two soldiers banging, one on at each door. One clambers up to the cab and grabs the door handle.
‘You damn fool! Open this door!’
Theo does as the man asks. The soldier sees Theo’s cap, takes his hand off the door handle and snaps to attention.
‘At your orders, Kapitän. I beg your pardon, I did not realise. With respect, a train is about to leave…’
With the door open Theo can see more clearly. A locomotive is hooked-up to wagons and is coming towards him out of the sidings. Thankfully it is moving slowly, hauling a train. Smoke and steam roar as wheels seek to grip.
The two soldiers stand at the front of the truck, leaning back on it in a feeble attempt to move it off the tracks. Theo restarts the engine. This time the wheels grip.
Panic over, the soldiers light cigarettes. As the train approaches they remain at the front of the truck, warming themselves on the radiator. The locomotive moves steadily, its funnel blasting sparks in a firefly cloud. The train is long and it kinks, snakelike, rattling over points. It straightens up, aligning itself with the arch. The engine is a Kreigslok; Theo allows himself a smile.
The soldiers had been justifiably angry; the train of wagons pass barely one metre in front of Theo’s truck. He imagines the look on Walter’s face if his SS colleagues had to tell him his truck had been hit by a train. Such an event would normally be no laughing matter. But in these dark times there is humour in so many things.
His smile stays for a while as if locked there. It fades when he realises the open wagons contain not goods but people, people packed so tightly they cannot sit down. Floodlights on the watchtower come on, and in their light Theo sees the scene clearly. Most of the passengers – if anyone travelling in these conditions can be called a passenger – are women, though there are children, too. All have shaved heads and all wear striped clothes resembling thin smocks; some stare absently at the truck with eyes deep in their sockets. The skin on their faces is stretched thin, like canvas. Theo wants to look away but finds he cannot.
Theo has seen death, he has seen those he worked with ripped apart by gunfire and blown apart by bombs. But this? Can people look like this and still live?
His fingers tighten on the wheel. His knuckles are white, his teeth clenched. He has bitten his lip and can taste blood in his mouth. He nods to himself. There is an easy explanation. This is a refugee camp and these are its inmates, Polish peasants driven from their land by enemies of the Reich.
Fo
r the first time in his life he believes in his leaders. If this is an example of what the Soviets can do then the Führer was right to invade them. Though he blanches at the sight of the wretches in the wagons he knows that transporting them in this way is for their own good. The Soviets are close; the only way to get these people to safety before they arrive is to move them like this.
The train drifts slowly from sight, under the brick arch like a snake with its victims. As the two soldiers move away from the front of the truck one nips the burning end of his cigarette, opens the top pocket of his tunic and slips it inside. The other man waves to Theo, salutes, draws a large circle in the air with his arm and then points up ahead: start your engine and move away now…
Theo slides a window open and calls to the man. He asks the best way to the road and the man points. There is a second archway, one Theo didn’t notice.
‘Cross the line here, Kapitän,’ the man says, pointing down. ‘There is a ramp under the snow. It is why you slipped when you stopped.’
Theo thanks him, slides the window closed and then opens it again. Calls out.
‘Soldier, what is this place?’
Appearing not to understand the question, the man frowns. Not only is this naval officer lost, he is also stupid. He shakes his head.
‘This is Birkenau, Kapitän,’ the man replies. ‘It is Auschwitz number two.’
Theo, no wiser, returns the man’s salute. Easing the truck forwards he crosses the track and makes for the second arch. Soon he is back on good roads.
At the sound of Theo’s voice Walter looks up from his bed. He curses, holds his head and curses again. He is still in uniform, still in his shoes. One hour after dawn he arrived in the back of a military staff car and was carried to the bed by two uniformed SS men. Now he blinks constantly as he fights to get his bearings. Finally he drags his legs off the bed and sits on the edge of it, ruffling his hair, scratching his head with both hands.
‘Soldiers brought breakfast from the mess,’ Theo says. ‘Sausage and coffee. You want some?’
Steadying himself with both hands, Walter shoves himself up off the bed. He stands, shakily. Then sits down again, heavily.
‘Must get out, Theodor. Last night I learned the Soviets have taken Krakau – that’s only fifty kilometres east of here. The camps here are being evacuated.’ He stands again, this time managing to balance. ‘Get the boy. Pack the bags. Load the truck and drive to Heiss.’
He sits down again. Falls back on the bed. Theo leaves him, goes to his own bed and stuffs clothes into bags. He lifts Peter, and with the boy under one arm and his kitbag under the other he goes out to the truck. After stowing Peter safely in the cab he starts the engine. He returns, immediately, for Walter.
The high doors of the grey building are open. Blown snow covers part of its floor and Theo drives right in. The place looks deserted, there is no sign of Heiss or the soldiers. Walter forces himself to concentrate, sobering up quickly when he sees, propped against one wall, what appear to be flat slabs of black rubber. He walks unsteadily over to them and gestures to Theo.
‘Over here, come, there are crates. Back the truck over here.’
Theo obeys. Like Walter, he assumes the crates containing the paintings have been sealed in bronze boxes and dipped in, or sprayed with, black rubber. The coating is smooth and number codes have been embossed in one corner. He attempts to lift one of them but he cannot. Walter walks away, talking loudly.
‘Where has the fool put the rest of them? Help me, Theodor! We have no time!’
With Walter cursing constantly they search the building, but there is no sign of the others. Walter checks the embossed codes against those on his papers.
‘At least the man started in the correct order,’ he mumbles. ‘These are most important ones.’
Walter wants to look elsewhere, wants to search other buildings. Theo reminds him it is he who wanted to leave the place quickly. Soon they are struggling with the black slabs, resting them on the truck’s tailgate, heaving them up and sliding them in. The effort is too much for Walter and he steps away, takes a deep breath, doubles over and vomits.
‘My pocket…’ he says. ‘Top pocket...’ Theo undoes the button for him, lifts the flap and takes out a tightly folded paper. ‘It is a movement permit for Peter Volker, signed by Manfred’s Deputy Commandant. It will suffice. Take good care of it.’
Theo takes it and unfolds it. Muttering his thanks he places it with his own papers. His boy is legal. If they are stopped he can say Peter’s other papers were burnt in a bombing raid.
They drive away through fine, drifting snow that blows from between buildings, twisting serpent-like along the Monowitz roads as if racing the truck. The cab is warm. Snowflakes touch the windscreen, they melt and vanish.
‘I saw a train last night in that camp you were in.’
‘I wasn’t in a camp. I was in the SS barracks.’
‘I went further. I needed a place to turn. There were people in open rail trucks.’
‘Refugees. You saw similar trucks when we came through Dresden.’
It was true. He had seen people crammed into trucks with no room for baggage. They had looked bulky in their thick clothing, some wrapped with sacking to help keep out the cold. Walter had laughed at them and said they were Poles.
‘These people didn’t look like those we saw at Dresden. They had thin prison clothes. They were freezing.’
Heiss had said there were work camps. Work camps were nothing unusual. There were camps in the dockyards for prisoners of war who repaired bomb damage and cleared harbour roads. Last night there were women and children. Children like Peter. All with shaven heads.
‘There were electric fences.’
‘Then you were lucky you didn’t touch them.’
‘There were SS guards. They weren’t regular army. And I heard dogs.’
‘Even refugees must be kept under control.’
‘They looked close to death. Did the Russians do that to them? Did they starve them?’
‘For god’s sake! Look where you are driving! Switch on the wipers!’
‘I want to know who they were. I want to know why they are here.’
‘Believe me, you do not. Just drive, Theodor. When you reach checkpoints keep going. They are abandoned.’
Theo heads for the road they came in on. The few houses they pass are quiet and despite the extreme cold their front doors are open. The railway yards are strangely silent. Theo swings the wheel and puts his foot to the boards.
Some of the bodies Theo sees by the roadside have striped clothing. Most have been stripped naked, their clothes taken by others. Skeletal, huddled bodies line roadside ditches and stain the snow red. Have the Soviets been this way already? He knows how it is done: enemy scouting parties advance along highways, they shoot up everything and then double back.
Theo, forced by the snow to drive slowly, stares out at the corpses. He knows he is finding excuses. The Soviets have not come this way, they did not do these things. These people are the Reich’s undesirables, the Jews and the Gypsies, the resettled peoples - peoples deported, exiled, enslaved and starved. He shakes his head.
Walter has been dozing. He wakens and attempts to focus.
‘What is it? Why so slow?’
Theo points. Before he stopped counting he had seen fifty bodies. Now there are more in the distance.
‘They are dead,’ Walter says. ‘You have seen dead men before. Drive faster. We do not have time for this dawdling.’
‘They are not men. They are women and children. My god, Walter! Look at them!’
‘But they are dead all the same. Dead like we will be if the Soviets catch up with us. I might only have six paintings in this truck, Theo, but I do not intend to hand them over to uniformed Russian peasants.’
He slumps back, asleep again.
Theo ponders Walter’s words. In a way he is right. There is nothing to be done but to drive. He speeds up. Changes through the gears.
There are more bodies now, scattered as if dropped from the sky. In a copse of trees he sees ten… twenty… forty. He loses count. Such carnage is beyond belief and to cope with it he pretends they’re not people. Is that how the guards at the camp feel about these wretches? Is that how they cope with such hell?
He shakes his head. His comparisons are odious, cowardly. These were people, human beings like himself, like Erica, like Peter. He looks down at his boy, sleeping as always. He touches his pocket to check his papers, and Peter’s, are there. Feels the flat bulge.
Ahead is a convoy, moving slowly, three trucks at least. Theo reaches it and fits in behind. Walter should be navigating, but in his condition there is no chance of that. Theo takes his eyes off the road for no more than a second as he reaches for the map, and in that second the truck in front stops and Theo stamps on the brakes. Walter, slumped in the corner of the cab, falls forwards, down onto Peter who stirs, emerges from the quilt and – unseen by Theo – clambers onto the seat.
The convoy moves again, travelling at walking pace it blocks most of the road. Theo pulls out to see past it but sees only people, they are strung out along the road as far as he can see. As the convoy approaches they move to the roadside, a ripple of movement that starts at the rear and rolls forwards. Uniformed guards converge on those that fall.
The trucks pull out to pass the procession. Theo, not part of the convoy, hangs back.
To move their charges the guards use whips and batons; one draws an automatic pistol and fires two shots into a group. Four women fall and he fires again, this time at those who help. Two more fall. Theo, stunned by what he sees, realises Peter is at the window, watching. Walter, wakened by the gunfire, shoves the boy down.
‘For god’s sake, Walter!’ Theo says. ‘Those are SS men! You outrank them all, you can stop them!’
‘It is none of my business.’
‘Even I outrank the bastards!’
Theo is shouting now, he has his side window open but it isn’t enough. He knocks the truck out of gear, pulls on the handbrake and is about to open his door when Walter hauls him back. There are more gunshots, this time from behind the truck, all evenly spaced and deliberate. Theo turns on Walter.
The Man Who Played Trains: The gripping new thriller from the author of Playpits Park Page 42