The End of Law

by Therese Down

  For his part, Brandt would not have chosen to dine with Gunther had Walter not insisted that he had business of great import to discuss. He did not like SS Oberführer Gunther; his taciturn manner and ascetic demeanour were not to Brandt’s extrovert tastes. He preferred the company of sophisticated people who were not afraid to laugh out loud and enjoy themselves. Walter Gunther seemed always on the verge of petulance. Still, by all accounts he was efficient, and Himmler thought highly of him.

  The splendidly lavish Adlon Kempinski was Brandt’s favourite place to stay and dine when he sojourned in Berlin on business, and he had reserved a table before Gunther had tracked him down late in the afternoon and insisted on a meeting at his nearest convenience. It was not convenient to invite Gunther to join him for dinner, but his diary was otherwise full for days, so here was the Oberstumführer, flushed and clearly anxious, at Brandt’s table. Enough to spoil a man’s appetite. Brandt was relieved when the champagne arrived. It might help loosen things up a little.

  “So, Officer Gunther, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Brandt poured Walter a generous glass of champagne. Walter nodded his thanks, took the stem of the glass and lifted it to his mouth, took two successive deep gulps. Brandt raised an eyebrow, refilled his glass. “That serious, eh?”

  “Herr Director Brandt,” began Walter, “what do you know about Obersturmführer Karl Muller?”

  “Muller?” Brandt looked surprised, considered a moment. “He seems a good man – clever, quiet, gets on with things. Why?”

  “Because I am not entirely sure yet, but I am almost certain that Muller might have… leaked certain top secret information to… to a civilian.”

  “Really?” Brandt considered anew, sipped his own champagne. “What makes you think so?”

  Walter felt, to his horror, the dreaded creeping redness rising hotly up his throat to his face. His anger at his vulnerability to this tell-tale sign of his emotional instability added to the speed and intensity of his blush. He compensated by sounding increasingly authoritative and officious. “It has come to my attention that Muller has informed a member of the public that… that a child is to be… to be…”

  Walter was experiencing a sensation close to panic. He seemed to have no control over the fear that was spreading throughout his body and making his throat close. He was trembling so much that he wanted to grip his chair to steady himself and take deep breaths to slow his heart, but he had to try and carry on talking and acting normally. His wholly unexpected discomfiture was not alleviated by the knowledge that he was before one of the most gifted and illustrious physicians in Germany and a close personal friend of the Führer himself.

  Brandt, preoccupied with the champagne and trying to remember anything untoward about the apparently modest and likeable Muller, did not realize Walter’s difficulty until he could not finish his sentence. Now he looked at Gunther, saw how flustered he had become, assumed he was embarrassed at this possible betrayal of a fellow SS officer, and paid closer attention.

  “He has told a parent that their child is to be killed. Is that it?”

  Walter nodded, grateful for the interpretation. He used the pause to recover his composure a little.

  “I see.” Brandt frowned and looked at the table, raised an eyebrow, took another drink. “Poor devil.”

  Walter’s immediate indignation at Brandt’s sympathy for Muller was distraction enough from his own acutely anxious state to allow less self-conscious speech. “I don’t understand, sir.”

  The goose liver pâté arrived and Brandt smiled delightedly at the waiter. “Splendid! Many thanks.” The doctor applied his napkin to his lap with an expert flourish and took another sip of champagne. “Well, it all makes perfect sense.” Brandt spread some pâté on a geometrically perfect square of finely toasted white bread. Walter waited for the revelation that must follow such a statement. “You see, I remembered, while you were talking, that I received a letter a few weeks ago – perhaps longer, let me see…” Brandt chewed, nodded, looked at Walter and said before he had entirely swallowed the pâté, “This is excellent pâté, my friend. Try it.”

  Walter by now was sufficiently unimpressed by Brandt’s casual reception of his confidence to be almost composed once more. He did not even make the effort to smile at Brandt’s prandial encouragement.

  Brandt seemed unperturbed, and continued, “Yes, some time after Christmas I got a letter from a chap called… Kauf… stein? Kauf… man? Yes, I think – a Dr Kaufman. I think I had met him before at some meeting. Anyway, this Kaufman is a psychiatrist in Leipzig – the asylum.” Brandt spread a little more pâté on toast; chewed thoughtfully.

  “What did he say, sir?” Walter was barely able to control his impatience. He had decided Brandt was a fool. He wondered how the Führer could hold him in such high regard. This was no way to do business. Why wasn’t he taking seriously this breach of confidentiality?

  At last, Brandt stopped chewing, looked straight at Walter and continued. “He said that Muller had removed his wife from the asylum at Leipzig. He phrased it politely, carefully, but he said he thought it irregular that an SS officer, even a senior one, could suddenly turn up and withdraw a patient from his care – even if the patient was that officer’s wife. He said he understood family ties were important, etcetera, etcetera, but he still felt SS officers should observe protocols and have respect for professional procedures. He was clearly furious.” Brandt allowed himself a chuckle at Kaufman’s expense, shook his head, savoured his pâté.

  Walter was fascinated – his fears once more allayed by this divulgence of the contents of so confidential and incriminating a letter. He was hugely impatient to know how this situation had been resolved. “I see,” Walter said, “and what happened?”

  Brandt looked irritated. This man was rude and spoiling his dinner. Gunther hadn’t touched his appetizer, and now he was on the verge of accusing Brandt of some sort of professional negligence.

  “What do you imagine ‘happened’, Gunther?” Brandt looked directly at Walter again. “Nothing ‘happened’. You cannot blame a man for looking after his wife. Apparently, Muller took her out of the asylum and made alternative arrangements for her care – with her parents, I believe. Wouldn’t you do the same?” He lowered his voice, leaned towards Walter, his eyes now deadly serious. “If you knew what might become of your wife in such a place because you had… inside knowledge, wouldn’t you use your position and influence to save her from possible harm?”

  Walter felt the panic returning; sought to respond before it rose again to his throat. “And how does this excuse his recent breach of confidence, his betrayal of the Reich Office?”

  Brandt sat back, took his napkin from his knee, rolled it and placed it carefully on the table to his right. He had decided to speed up this dinner, much as it pained him to leave his pâté unfinished. He could, however, see how Himmler liked this Oberführer Gunther. They had much in common. Both were more reptilian than human.

  “It does not excuse it, Oberführer Gunther, but it does explain it.” Brandt sat back once more, cleared some toast from a back tooth with his tongue. “I can turn a blind eye to a colleague exploiting his rank to benefit his family. Within reason, of course. It makes no difference to the Reich if Muller’s wife is removed from an asylum in Leipzig.” Here he paused, then continued in a tone that was probably close to the one he employed when discussing diagnoses with colleagues. “But Muller is clearly suffering from a guilty conscience and he has taken pity on some poor parent. He has empathized, Officer Gunther.” Walter said nothing. Brandt sipped his champagne, seemed to reflect a moment, then resumed his train of thought. “And for that reason alone – if what you say is true –” and he looked at Walter coldly – “he must be disciplined. Probably removed from the programme.”

  Walter’s glowering expression dissolved in pleasant surprise. He smiled, took a deep breath, raised his champagne glass to Brandt in a toast.

  “Pity,” added Brandt reflecti
vely. “I liked him.”

  “Heil Hitler,” Walter smiled charmingly, his voice warm with renewed admiration.

  More like it, thought Brandt.

  “I understand, Director Brandt,” added Walter as an apparent afterthought, “but what shall we do about… about the child?”

  The medic frowned once more, responded matter-of-factly. “The child should be left well alone,” he pronounced. “Muller should be made to look like a mad man for suggesting such a thing.” Then he drained his glass, looked directly at Walter. “What is wrong with the child?”

  Walter took a handkerchief from a pocket and pretended he needed to blow his nose. Brandt looked away discreetly.

  “Some incurable paralysing disease – I am not sure.”

  Brandt nodded, lost interest. “Well, see whichever doctor is responsible. Get… him – her? – off the list. Explain there has been a potential security breach. Don’t go into details. Get the child home, away from the hospital and access to staff. And, Gunther…”

  “Yes, Dr Brandt?”

  “Make sure this is the only one. Find out if he has spoken to others.”

  “Yes, sir,” Walter replied.

  “Excellent. Good work, Gunther. Now for pity’s sake, man, eat your pâté – it’s absolutely marvellous.”

  Back at his office, Walter telephoned Dr Heinze at Brandenburg hospital. He discovered that Hedda had remained overnight at the hospital with Agnette and that she was most insistent on remaining that night also. Yes, he could confirm that Muller had visited the hospital within the last week or so, to talk about drug consignments and to visit the wards, prior to the warehouse bombing. Nothing seemed to have been done since; they were still awaiting a new consignment. They were now behind schedule. There were now many spaces on Gorden Ward and several patients on the children’s ward who could occupy those spaces. But should they proceed according to the old regime or wait for the new ‘treatments’?

  Walter had responded that they should proceed according to previous protocols and he would personally look into the delay with the deliveries. And then, as if he had just remembered, he added that there might possibly have been a breach in security. It was most regrettable, but his daughter was no longer entitled to special paediatric treatment. He was not questioning Drs Heinze and Gutt’s judgment, but it might be prudent to take Agnette off the special list for now. He could not elaborate further at present.

  “That explains a lot,” Heinze had commented wryly, clearly referring to Hedda’s unusual behaviour. Of course he would comply immediately. Might he ask about the source of the indiscretion?

  “Have you noticed anything unusual about Obersturmführer Muller’s behaviour?” Walter had replied. “For example, has he been speaking to any nursing staff in particular, or to Frau Gunther, by any chance, on his visits to Brandenburg?”

  Dr Heinze said he would conduct discreet enquiries.

  But Walter was in no mood to wait for enough circumstantial evidence to be amassed on which to arrest Muller as an enemy of the Reich. He had already thought of a plan to precipitate his conviction.

  “Emilie!” He shouted for his secretary through his open office door.

  “Yes, Officer Gunther, sir?” Emilie was present in seconds, notebook and pen at the ready. A young, plain girl of diminutive stature, she was unfailingly nervous in Walter’s presence. This, however, made her quick to obey and super-efficient, for she dreaded his censure.

  “Get me the number of a Dr Kaufman in Leipzig. He works at some lunatic asylum down there. There can’t be many. As quickly as you can, please.” And Emilie was gone. Within ten minutes she reappeared with the number. “Thank you, Emilie. Now, shut the door.”

  Moments later, Walter was speaking directly to Kaufman. He apologized for the tardiness of the response to the good doctor’s letter regarding the sudden removal of a Frau Muller from his care, around Christmas time? The letter had received the close attention of Dr Brandt himself, and Dr Brandt had confided in him about the incident. Now Walter was telephoning, he said, to discuss what he agreed amounted to a most regrettable breach of protocol; procedures should of course be observed at all times. After all, continued Walter, he understood the patient was very ill and needed to remain hospitalized?

  Dr Kaufman emphatically confirmed this. The patient was suicidal when he last treated her, he said, and needed heavy sedation to ensure she was not a threat to herself. The prognosis was very poor. Frau Muller was certainly a candidate for ECT, in Kaufman’s opinion, and it was not at all appropriate that she should be in a domestic setting.

  Walter made sympathetic noises and said how deeply regrettable the whole thing was, but that SS Officer Muller was now fully understanding of the need to respect Reich protocols and was in agreement that his wife should be returned to the asylum. Authorizing paperwork from Dr Brandt’s office would follow in the next few days by priority post. From now on, Dr Kaufman’s assessments of the patient’s welfare, and no one else’s, would be paramount, and the Reich Office would watch the development of the case with interest.

  Kaufman thanked Walter for his courteous and most professional call, and confided further that he had been most insulted by the manner and behaviour of Officer Muller – very abrupt and rude. And, if he was not too impertinent in suggesting it, in Kaufman’s professional opinion, Muller seemed to be suffering from a nervous disorder of some sort himself – he was highly strung and anxious; his professional judgment obviously questionable. Oh, and he had terrified one of the nurses before Christmas; threatened her, Dr Kaufman believed.

  “Emilie!”

  Again, with the speed and demeanour of a nervous rabbit, Emilie popped her head around the office door. “Yes, Herr Oberführer Gunther, sir?”

  “Come in and take a letter. Stamp it officially, send it immediately, high priority post, Reich business. Ready?”

  Hedda had spent two nights at the hospital, as well as most of three days, and she was exhausted. It was almost impossible to sleep properly in the armchair she had been given, and she suffered from bad dreams when she did doze off. The end of March weather was grey and rainy, and a chill wind swept in from the east, so that even getting outside for a few moments’ fresh air was unpleasant. In any case, she hardly dared leave Agnette.

  But the more time passed without incident, the more she began to wonder if she had been insane to listen to Karl. She had noted the blue plus sign on Agnette’s notes, but had not had the opportunity to check other children’s notes for similar symbols or the green minus signs Karl had mentioned. It was hard to tell from a side room if other children were being moved suspiciously and not just going home. Certainly, she recognized a few children and their regular visitors. They seemed to be getting better and Hedda could detect nothing out of the ordinary in the days she remained with her daughter.

  When she doubted Karl’s story, she felt hot flushes of embarrassment. What had she been thinking, rushing to her father like that with such a story? He would think her hysterical. And her anxiety was compounded by the silence of Agnette’s room and the increasing loneliness Hedda felt, isolated as she was from Anselm, whom she desperately missed.

  The two days since she had spoken with Karl in the hospital gardens seemed much longer ago, so slowly the quiet hours passed. Marguerite’s brief visits with clothes and coffee and food from home were welcome punctuations in the monotony, but she longed to talk to someone; to share with someone trustworthy the terrible fears and sadness she felt by turn as the slow hours slid by.

  And then something astonishing happened. Something that confirmed she was not insane and that Muller was to be trusted and that she had done the right thing in speaking to her father. Upon returning from a short walk to the hospital gardens for a cigarette, Hedda checked Agnette, checked the chart at the end of the bed – as she did compulsively every time she returned from the bathroom or a cigarette break. But on this occasion there was an amendment that she was certain had been made in the ten minutes sin
ce she stepped out of the room. Hedda carried the notes to the armchair, sat down heavily. She was trembling violently. The second page with the stamped blue cross in the top right-hand corner had gone.

  And then, on the evening of the same day, the last Wednesday in March, Ernst and Mathilde Schroeder arrived to visit their granddaughter. Mathilde was elegant in grey, gloves to match, handbag dangled daintily across one forearm.

  “Your father was most insistent we come, Hedda, and he was right: we have been too negligent.” She kissed Hedda on each cheek, looked into her eyes, tutted at how exhausted she seemed.

  Ernst stood, hands in pockets at the door, his jaw working fiercely as though fighting some strong emotion. His eyes were fixed on the bed where Agnette lay staring at the dark March sky through the small window. Only when Mathilde had stopped fussing and had moved to her granddaughter’s bedside, smiling into Agnette’s clear eyes, did Ernst look at his daughter. He held her anxious gaze, nodded. Hedda could not dam the tears that spilled down her face.

  “Is there any change, Hedda? Darling! You’re upset!” Mathilde looked for somewhere to put down her handbag, hesitated a moment, looked apologetically at Agnette, then placed it on the bed. She opened it and took out a handkerchief. Carefully in her tight skirt, she hunkered down before her daughter and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “Darling, everything will be better from now on, you’ll see,” crooned Mathilde soothingly. “We know you have had a very difficult time and you have been so brave. Your father has told me a few things…” Hedda looked to Ernst in alarm. He frowned, shook his head quickly. “Oh, don’t worry, just outlines, nothing detailed. You know your father. But we do know that life is not… easy for you, Hedda. We want to do more. We have been talking and, well, we want to help, don’t we, Ernst?”

  Ernst nodded, looked again at Hedda, looked down at the floor.

  Hedda could not speak for some time, crying as if her heart would break.