Winter of the World

by Ken Follett

Maud jumped up and put her arms around Ada.

  Walter took the letter from Ada's fingers and read it. "Oh, dear, how terribly sad," he said. "Poor little Kurt." He put the paper down on the breakfast table.

  Ada began to sob. "My little boy, my dear little boy, and he died without his mother--I can't bear it!"

  Carla fought back tears. She felt bewildered. "Axel and Kurt?" she said. "At the same time?"

  She picked up the letter. It was printed with the name of the hospital and its address in Akelberg. It read:

  Dear Mrs. Hempel,

  I regret to inform you of the sad death of your son, Kurt Walter Hempel, age eight years. He passed away on 4 April at this hospital as a result of a burst appendix. Everything possible was done for him but to no avail. Please accept my deepest condolences.

  It was signed by the senior physician.

  Carla looked up. Her mother was sitting next to Ada, arm around her, holding her hand as she sobbed.

  Carla was grief-stricken, but more alert than Ada. She spoke to her father in a shaky voice. "There's something wrong."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Look again." She handed him the letter. "Appendicitis."

  "What is the significance?"

  "Kurt had had his appendix removed."

  "I remember," her father said. "He had an emergency operation, just after his sixth birthday."

  Carla's sorrow was mixed with angry suspicion. Had Kurt been killed by a dangerous experiment that the hospital was now trying to cover up? "Why would they lie?" she said.

  Erik banged his fist on the table. "Why do you say it is a lie?" he cried. "Why do you always accuse the establishment? This is obviously a mistake! Some typist has made a copying error!"

  Carla was not so sure. "A typist working in a hospital is likely to know what an appendix is."

  Erik said furiously: "You will seize upon even this personal tragedy as a way of attacking those in authority!"

  "Be quiet, you two," said their father.

  They looked at him. There was a new tone in his voice. "Erik may be right," he said. "If so, the hospital will be perfectly happy to answer questions and give further details of how Kurt and Axel died."

  "Of course they will," said Erik.

  Walter went on: "And if Carla is right, they will try to discourage inquiries, withhold information, and intimidate the parents of the dead children by suggesting that their questions are somehow illegitimate."

  Erik looked less comfortable about that.

  Half an hour ago Walter had been a shrunken man. Now somehow he seemed to fill his suit again. "We will find out as soon as we start asking questions."

  Carla said: "I'm going to see Frieda."

  Her mother said: "Don't you have to go to work?"

  "I'm on the late shift."

  Carla phoned Frieda, told her that Kurt was dead too, and said she was coming to talk about it. She put on her coat, hat, and gloves, then wheeled her bicycle outside. She was a fast rider and it took her only a quarter of an hour to get to the Francks' villa in Schoneberg.

  The butler let her in and told her the family were still in the dining room. As soon as she walked in, Frieda's father, Ludwig Franck, bellowed at her: "What did they tell you at the Wannsee children's home?"

  Carla did not much like Ludwig. He was a right-wing bully and he had supported the Nazis in the early days. Perhaps he had changed his views: many businessmen had by now, though they showed little sign of the humility that ought to go with having been so wrong.

  She did not answer immediately. She sat down at the table and looked at the family: Ludwig, Monika, Werner, and Frieda, and the butler hovering in the background. She collected her thoughts.

  "Come on, girl, answer me!" Ludwig demanded. He had in his hand a letter that looked very like Ada's, and he was waving it angrily.

  Monika put a restraining hand on her husband's arm. "Take it easy, Ludi."

  "I want to know!" he said.

  Carla looked at his pink face and little black mustache. He was in an agony of grief, she saw. In other circumstances she would have refused to speak to someone so rude. But he had an excuse for his bad manners, and she decided to overlook them. "The director, Professor Willrich, told us there was a new treatment for Kurt's condition."

  "The same as he told us," said Ludwig. "What kind of treatment?"

  "I asked him that question. He said I would not be able to understand it. I persisted, and he said it involved drugs, but he did not give any further information. May I see your letter, Herr Franck?"

  Ludwig's expression said he was the one who should be asking questions, but he handed the sheet of paper to Carla.

  It was exactly the same as Ada's, and Carla had a queer feeling that the typist had done several of them, just changing the names.

  Franck said: "How can two boys have died of appendicitis at the same time? It's not a contagious illness."

  Carla said: "Kurt certainly did not die of appendicitis, for he had no appendix. It was removed two years ago."

  "Right," said Ludwig. "That's enough talk." He snatched the letter from Carla's hand. "I'm going to see someone in the government about this." He went out.

  Monika followed him, and so did the butler.

  Carla went over to Frieda and took her hand. "I'm so sorry," she said.

  "Thank you," Frieda whispered.

  Carla went to Werner. He stood up and put his arms around her. She felt a tear fall on her forehead. She was gripped by she did not know what intense emotion. Her heart was full of grief, yet she thrilled to the pressure of his body against hers, and the gentle touch of his hands.

  After a long moment Werner stepped back. He said angrily: "My father has phoned the hospital twice. The second time, they told him they had no more information and hung up on him. But I'm going to find out what happened to my brother, and I won't be brushed off."

  Frieda said: "Finding out won't bring him back."

  "I still want to know. If necessary I'll go to Akelberg."

  Carla said: "I wonder if there's anyone in Berlin who could help us."

  "It would have to be someone in the government," Werner said.

  Frieda said: "Heinrich's father is in the government."

  Werner snapped his fingers. "The very man. He used to belong to the Centre Party, but he's a Nazi now, and something important in the Foreign Office."

  Carla said: "Will Heinrich take us to see him?"

  "He will if Frieda asks him," said Werner. "Heinrich will do anything for Frieda."

  Carla could believe that. Heinrich had always been intense about everything he did.

  "I'll phone him now," said Frieda.

  She went into the hall, and Carla and Werner sat down side by side. He put his arm around her, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. She did not know whether these signs of affection were merely a side effect of the tragedy, or something more.

  Frieda came back in and said: "Heinrich's father will see us right away if we go over there now."

  They all got into Werner's sports car, squeezing onto the front seat. "I don't know how you keep this car going," Frieda said as he pulled away. "Even Father can't get petrol for private use."

  "I tell my boss it's for official business," he said. Werner worked for an important general. "But I don't know how much longer I can get away with it."

  The von Kessel family lived in the same suburb. Werner drove there in five minutes.

  The house was luxurious, though smaller than the Francks'. Heinrich met them at the door and showed them into a living room with leather-bound books and an old German wood carving of an eagle.

  Frieda kissed him. "Thank you for doing this," she said. "It probably wasn't easy--I know you don't get on so well with your father."

  Heinrich beamed with pleasure.

  His mother brought them coffee and cake. She seemed a warm, simple person. When she had served them she left, like a maid.

  Heinrich's father, Gottfried, came in.
He had the same thick straight hair, but it was silver instead of black.

  Heinrich said: "Father, here are Werner and Frieda Franck, whose father manufactures People's Radios."

  "Ah, yes," said Gottfried. "I have seen your father in the Herrenklub."

  "And this is Carla von Ulrich--I believe you know her father, too."

  "We were colleagues at the German embassy in London," Gottfried said carefully. "That was in 1914." Clearly he was not so pleased to be reminded of his association with a Social Democrat. He took a piece of cake, clumsily dropped it on the rug, tried ineffectually to pick up the crumbs, then abandoned the effort and sat back.

  Carla thought: What is he afraid of?

  Heinrich got straight down to the purpose of the visit. "Father, I expect you've heard of Akelberg."

  Carla was watching Gottfried closely. There was a split-second flash of something in his expression, but he quickly adopted a pose of indifference. "A small town in Bavaria?" he said.

  "There is a hospital there," said Heinrich. "For handicapped people."

  "I don't think I was aware of that."

  "We think something strange is going on there, and we wondered if you might know about it."

  "I certainly don't. What seems to be happening?"

  Werner broke in. "My brother died there, apparently of appendicitis. Herr von Ulrich's maid's child died at the same time in the same hospital of the same illness."

  "Very sad--but a coincidence, surely?"

  Carla said: "My maid's child did not have an appendix. It was removed two years ago."

  "I understand why you are keen to ascertain the facts," said Gottfried. "This is deeply unsatisfactory. However, the likeliest explanation would seem to be clerical error."

  Werner said: "If so, we would like to know."

  "Of course. Have you written to the hospital?"

  Carla said: "I wrote to ask when my maid could visit her son. They never replied."

  Werner said: "My father telephoned the hospital this morning. The senior physician slammed the phone down on him."

  "Oh, dear. Such bad manners. But, you know, this is hardly a Foreign Office matter."

  Werner leaned forward. "Herr von Kessel, is it possible that both boys were involved in a secret experiment that went wrong?"

  Gottfried sat back. "Quite impossible," he said, and Carla had a feeling he was telling the truth. "That is definitely not happening." He sounded relieved.

  Werner looked as if he had run out of questions, but Carla was not satisfied. She wondered why Gottfried seemed so happy about the assurance he had just given. Was it because he was concealing something worse?

  She was struck by a possibility so appalling that she could hardly contemplate it.

  Gottfried said: "Well, if that's all . . ."

  Carla said: "You're very sure, sir, that they were not killed by an experimental therapy that went wrong?"

  "Very sure."

  "To know for certain that is not true, you must have some knowledge of what is being done at Akelberg."

  "Not necessarily," he said, but all his tension had returned, and she knew she was on to something.

  "I remember seeing a Nazi poster," she went on. It was this memory that had triggered her dreadful thought. "There was a picture of a male nurse and a mentally handicapped man. The text said something like: 'Sixty thousand reichsmarks is what this person suffering from hereditary defects costs the people's community during his lifetime. Comrade, that is your money too!' It was an advertisement for a magazine, I think."

  "I have seen some of that propaganda," Gottfried said disdainfully, as if it were nothing to do with him.

  Carla stood up. "You're a Catholic, Herr von Kessel, and you brought up Heinrich in the Catholic faith."

  Gottfried made a scornful noise. "Heinrich says he's an atheist now."

  "But you're not. And you believe that human life is sacred."

  "Yes."

  "You say that the doctors at Akelberg are not testing dangerous new therapies on handicapped people, and I believe you."

  "Thank you."

  "But are they doing something else? Something worse?"

  "No, no."

  "Are they deliberately killing the handicapped?"

  Gottfried shook his head silently.

  Carla moved closer to Gottfried and lowered her voice, as if they were the only two people in the room. "As a Catholic who believes that human life is sacred, will you put your hand on your heart and tell me that mentally ill children are not being murdered at Akelberg?"

  Gottfried smiled, made a reassuring gesture, and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  Carla knelt on the rug in front of him. "Would you do that, please? Right now? Here in your house with you are four young Germans, your son and his three friends. Just tell us the truth. Look me in the eye and say that our government does not kill handicapped children."

  The silence in the room was total. Gottfried seemed about to speak, but changed his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, twisted his mouth into a grimace, and bowed his head. The four young people watched his facial contortions in amazement.

  At last he opened his eyes. He looked at them one by one, ending with his gaze on his son.

  Then he stood up and walked out of the room.

  iii

  The next day, Werner said to Carla: "This is awful. We've talked of the same thing for more than twenty-four hours. We'll go mad if we don't do something else. Let's see a movie."

  They went to the Kurfurstendamm, a street of theaters and shops, always called the Ku'damm. Most of the good German filmmakers had gone to Hollywood years ago, and the domestic movies were now second-rate. They saw Three Soldiers, set during the invasion of France.

  The three soldiers were a tough Nazi sergeant, a sniveling complainer who looked a bit Jewish, and an earnest young man. The earnest one asked naive questions like: "Do the Jews really do us any harm?" and in answer received long, stern lectures from the sergeant. When battle was joined the sniveler admitted to being a Communist, deserted, and was blown up in an air raid. The earnest young man fought bravely, was promoted to sergeant, and became an admirer of the Fuhrer. The script was dire but the battle scenes were exciting.

  Werner held Carla's hand all the way through. She hoped he would kiss her in the dark, but he did not.

  As the lights came up he said: "Well, it was terrible, but it took my mind off things for a couple of hours."

  They went outside and found his car. "Shall we go for a drive?" he said. "It could be our last chance. This car goes up on blocks next week."

  He drove out to the Grunewald. On the way Carla's thoughts inevitably returned to yesterday's conversation with Gottfried von Kessel. No matter how many times she went over it in her mind, there was no way she could escape the terrible conclusion all four of them had reached at the end of it. Kurt and Axel had not been accidental victims of a dangerous medical experiment, as she had at first thought. Gottfried had denied that convincingly. But he had not been able to bring himself to deny that the government was deliberately killing the handicapped, and lying to their families about it. It was hard to believe, even of people as ruthless and brutal as the Nazis. Yet Gottfried's response had been the clearest example of guilty behavior that Carla had ever witnessed.

  When they were in the forest Werner pulled off the road and drove along a track until the car was hidden by shrubbery. Carla guessed he had brought other girls to this spot.

  He turned out the lights, and they were in deep darkness. "I'm going to speak to General Dorn," he said. Dorn was his boss, an important officer in the air force. "What about you?"

  "My father says there's no political opposition left, but the churches are still strong. No one who is sincere about their religious beliefs could condone what's being done."

  "Are you religious?" Werner asked.

  "Not really. My father is. For him, the Protestant faith is part of the German heritage he loves. Mother goes to chur
ch with him, though I suspect her theology might be a bit unorthodox. I believe in God, but I can't imagine he cares whether people are Protestant or Catholic or Muslim or Buddhist. And I like singing hymns."

  Werner's voice fell to a whisper. "I can't believe in a God who allows the Nazis to murder children."

  "I don't blame you."

  "What is your father going to do?"

  "Speak to the pastor of our church."

  "Good."

  They were silent for a while. He put his arm around her. "Is this all right?" he said in a half whisper.

  She was tense with anticipation, and her voice seemed to fail. Her reply came out as a grunt. She tried again, and managed to say: "If it stops you feeling so sad . . . yes."

  Then he kissed her.

  She kissed him back eagerly. He stroked her hair, then her breasts. At this point, she knew, a lot of girls would call a halt. They said if you went any further you would lose control of yourself.

  Carla decided to risk it.

  She touched his cheek while he was kissing her. She caressed his throat with her fingertips, enjoying the feel of the warm skin. She put her hand under his jacket and explored his body, her hand on his shoulder blades and his ribs and his spine.

  She sighed when she felt his hand on her thigh, under her skirt. As soon as he touched her between her legs she parted her knees. Girls said a boy would think you cheap for doing that, but she could not help herself.

  He touched her in just the right place. He did not try to put his hand inside her underwear, but stroked her lightly through the cotton. She heard herself making noises in her throat, quietly at first but then louder. Eventually she cried out with pleasure, burying her face in his neck to muffle the sound. Then she had to push his hand away because she felt too sensitive.

  She was panting. As she began to get her breath back she kissed his neck. He touched her cheek lovingly.

  After a minute she said: "Can I do something for you?"

  "Only if you want to."

  She was embarrassed by how much she wanted to. "The only thing is, I've never . . ."

  "I know," he said. "I'll show you."

  iv

  Pastor Ochs was a portly, comfortable clergyman with a large house, a nice wife, and five children, and Carla feared he would refuse to get involved. But she underestimated him. He had already heard rumors that were troubling his conscience, and he agreed to go with Walter to the Wannsee children's home. Professor Willrich could hardly refuse a visit from an interested clergyman.