Huber's Tattoo

by Quentin Smith

  Huber stood up and began to pace about the room excitedly.

  “If we can combat puerperal fever with Prontosil, Caesarean sections will become less risky for the mothers; then we can plan to do them on all of our project babies before we subject them to the rigours and stresses of a labour which is likely anyway to end in obstructed failure. If my scientific predictions are correct, then with each successive generation the foetal heads will only get larger, Professor.”

  Huber stopped in front of the hominid evolution chart, staring up at the timeline showing increasing skull sizes.

  “This is still very dangerous, Rolph. Even with Prontosil we are still likely to lose many more mothers after Caesarean section than we would like,” Oskar pointed out sombrely. “There is also the danger of the anaesthesia; it is not fail-safe.”

  “We’ll see, Oskar, we’ll see, for I am confident of our ability to adapt to the demands of the situation. We have to think on our feet in this project, for it is new, pioneering and ambitious. But it is only the bold and the daring who stand any chance of succeeding.”

  Bauer turned from the skeleton.

  “Well said, Rolph, well said. I will try to get you some Prontosil which I am sure will change your fortunes. I will have to be careful though, if Gruppenführer Göring was to find out we were directing Prontosil away from the military he would be furious.”

  Huber and Oskar nodded their assent, each aware that they were complicit in a game of brinkmanship with very high stakes amongst the Nazi elite.

  “How is the baby doing?” Bauer asked in a slightly less formal tone.

  “Very well. Let me show you, Professor,” Huber said, gesturing towards the door with a broad smile.

  The three men walked down the brightly lit tiled corridors, shades of green and white dominating their field of vision. The nursery could be viewed through a large, plate-glass window in the wall, revealing a spotless white room filled with rows of cribs, most of them containing human bundles wrapped in pale green blankets. Half a dozen nurses in pressed, snow-white uniforms and bonnets milled around, stooping over cribs to tend the infants. One was holding an infant and bottle-feeding it.

  “Doctors,” a nurse greeted them as they entered.

  “Where is Magda’s baby?” Huber asked.

  The nurse led them to a crib from which she extracted a baby who immediately began to cry loudly, its face becoming suffused with blood like a red balloon being inflated. Huber beamed proudly as he took the baby from her and cradled it.

  “Look at that head, Professor. Is it not a thing of scientific beauty to behold?”

  Bauer nodded approval as Huber stroked the baby’s domed head admiringly, smoothing scanty blond hairs in the process. Huber licked his lips excitedly.

  “This head is 41cm in circumference, 41cm. Is it not magnificent? The normal upper limit for newborn term babies is around 39cm. This is why Oskar could not deliver the baby with forceps.”

  Bauer smiled.

  “So it does work.”

  Huber continued to stroke the baby’s head.

  “And this is only the first generation, Professor,” Huber said. “Wait until we start combining first generation parents.”

  “Have you marked the baby yet, as we agreed?”

  Huber shook his head.

  “Tomorrow, Professor, the tattooist will come in the morning.”

  “Is he trustworthy? Has he been vetted?” Bauer asked suspiciously.

  Oskar stepped forward to admire the baby’s head.

  “He works in Dachau for the camp Kommandant, Professor,” Huber said.

  “Very well, then. I must go, gentlemen,” Bauer said. “I am satisfied that matters will come under control here soon. Oh, and congratulations, Rolph. I am very pleased to hear your happy news. You set a fine example to all SS officers by making such an admirable contribution to the Reich.” Bauer extended his hand and shook Huber’s effusively.

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  Once Bauer had left Oskar and Huber exchanged perplexed looks.

  “What was that about?” Oskar said.

  Huber shrugged his shoulders.

  “I have no idea.”

  Then he felt a sudden shiver run down his spine: surely it could not be?

  Forty-Five

  Once out of Bruce’s office, Henry and Natasha avoided the crowds around the lifts by darting down the fire escape. Two floors below they exited the stairwell and Henry ushered Natasha into the canteen, almost deserted at that time of morning. The greasy odours of lunch being fried and grilled were already filling the atmosphere with aromas of chips, sausages and saturated fat.

  “Where is the letter?” Henry asked as they took a seat around a secluded corner table, well away from the serving area.

  Natasha produced the folded sheet of paper. Henry took it and unfolded it on the table: cheap, generic, lined A4 paper torn from a spiral-bound jotter pad.

  He began to read.

  If you value the life and health of Henry Webber then leave him alone, stop flirting with him, stop leading him astray. Your continued association with him is endangering his life.

  The words struck Henry sharply. There was little ambiguity about the brief note, penned in a blue ink scrawl. He read it again. Natasha began to wipe her nose with a tissue, sniffing discreetly as she did so.

  “How do we know this is addressed to you?” he asked, looking up into her red, swollen eyes.

  “It came in this.”

  Natasha produced a brown envelope, roughly torn open across the top. It was addressed to Natasha Keeler at her flat in Putney in the same blue ink scrawl as the letter. A second class Royal Mail stamp was irregularly pasted in the top corner of the envelope.

  “We can’t even get DNA off the licked stamp – it’s self- adhesive,” Henry commented, staring at it.

  “We haven’t done anything, Henry.” Natasha looked at the envelope as if it were in some way soiled.

  “I know, I know,” Henry said.

  It was true, he realised, he had committed no physical act that could constitute infidelity on his part, despite the precarious state of his personal feelings towards his sergeant.

  “I just cannot think who could have sent this. Who could know this much about us?” Natasha said, sniffing away tears as she spoke.

  “Nobody knows about the hotel in Carsac,” Henry said, frowning as he puzzled through the possible origins of the letter. “Do they?” he added, looking sharply at Natasha.

  “No!” she protested. “I’m frightened for you, Henry. It’s just what I feared most, that you could become a target because of your common links with the other victims. This cannot be coincidence.”

  “My association with you could be regarded as a weakness, or a deviance,” he finished.

  “Yes, as if you’re disappointing somebody, or letting them down, like Haysbrook’s homosexuality, Barnabus’ alcoholic problems…”

  “But why not threaten me then? Why send the letter to you? I don’t understand that.”

  Natasha seemed to focus her thoughts suddenly; no sniffing, no teary sobs.

  “It’s as though remedial action would safeguard your life, Henry. It’s saying that if I leave you alone you will not be harmed.”

  Natasha’s face suddenly twisted as she fought to subdue a rising sob.

  “I don’t want to leave you alone,” she whispered.

  Henry placed a hand on her arm and squeezed gently, feeling the firmness of her lightly boned arm beneath his fingers.

  “Haysbrook also received a threatening letter, didn’t he?” he remarked as he gently caressed Natasha’s forearm. He wanted to take her hand, interlock his fingers between hers, feel that sudden adolescent thrill of intimacy as he experienced for the first time when holding a girl’s hand in the cinema.

  The doors to the canteen burst open and three uniformed officers crashed in noisily, heading for the coffee vending machine. Henry quickly withdrew his hand from Natasha’s arm.


  “Unusual handwriting, isn’t it?” he mused, tilting the letter back and forth. “You are right-handed like me, aren’t you?”

  Natasha nodded.

  “Do me a favour: write a sentence beneath these words.”

  Natasha recoiled at the suggestion.

  “It’s evidence.”

  “Who are you going to show it to? Do you want everyone to know? I certainly don’t want Bruce pulling me off this investigation, not as we’re about to fly to Steinhöring.”

  Natasha stared at him for a moment and then drew the sheet of paper towards her. She quickly scribbled a few words, using a ballpoint pen Henry passed to her.

  “Now my turn,” Henry said, holding his hand out for the pen and paper.

  He scrawled the same words that Natasha had written, beneath hers. They both studied the three styles of handwriting.

  “Do you see it?” Henry asked.

  “What?”

  “I reckon the person who wrote this threatening note to you is left-handed. Look at the angle of the upstrokes compared to yours and mine – they’re quite different.”

  “Oh yes,” Natasha said, peering at the three samples.

  “The ink has also been smudged as the hand moved forwards, typical of left-handed writers.”

  Henry sat back in sudden subdued silence. The uniformed officers at the far end of the canteen erupted into howls of laughter.

  “What is it?” Natasha asked.

  Henry hesitated.

  “I know someone who is left-handed.” He paused. “Someone who might have reason to write this sort of note to you.”

  Forty-Six

  Steinhöring

  Huber rolled on to his back and placed his arms behind his head, breathing deeply. He smiled as Gudrun cuddled into him, resting her head on his naked shoulder, her right hand caressing his chest.

  “You were like an animal tonight, Rolph. I liked it,” Gudrun said with a satisfied smile on her face, her hair tousled and untamed on the pillow.

  Huber’s face straightened and he frowned.

  “Bauer frightened me today. His tone and demeanour were very… uncompromising.”

  “Do you feel you are in bed with the devil?” Gudrun said, before suddenly realizing the double entendre.

  “I know I am!” Huber chuckled, squeezing her slender body tightly. He pulled the sheet up to his chest until it almost touched Gudrun’s face.

  “Some days I do,” he said seriously. “It is science we are doing, not military conquests, and I cannot guarantee outcomes like he demands, like Himmler demands.”

  “You are a brilliant man, Rolph. You will succeed, I know you will.”

  “Bauer said something strange to me today,” Huber began, glancing down at the top of Gudrun’s head as she rested peacefully on his chest, “He congratulated me on my fine personal contribution to the Reich’s ambitions.”

  Gudrun smiled.

  “Do you know what he means?” Gudrun asked.

  “No.”

  Huber placed an arm behind his head again, adjusting his position slightly. Gudrun sat up, propped on one elbow. The sheet fell away to her waist revealing firm breasts on a chest heaving with excitable breathing.

  “I am pregnant, Rolph.”

  She beamed and rubbed his nose playfully with her finger. Huber’s sat up, turning to face her.

  “Mine?”

  “Of course! What do you think?”

  “But why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was going to, tonight, I didn’t expect Bauer to beat me to it.”

  Huber frowned.

  “Why did he know before me?”

  Gudrun began to caress Huber’s chest and neck and her eyes wandered down away from his face, lasciviously.

  “I knew he was just here for the day and I had to ask him something important.”

  Huber grabbed her caressing hand and pressed it against his chest. He looked at her intently, silently urging her to reveal everything.

  “He has agreed to admit me and our baby to the project unit.”

  Gudrun’s face lit up with a girlish smile as though she had done something extraordinarily clever. Horrified, Huber sat up straight.

  “Gudrun, do you know what goes on in there?”

  “No, but I want to.”

  Huber lowered his eyes. This could not be happening. A shiver of fearful, icy cold shot down his spine.

  “It is not safe, Gudrun. There are so many dangers. I cannot allow it.”

  “You don’t need to allow it, Rolph. The baby is mine, too, and I want it to be as good as it possibly can be for the Reich.”

  Huber looked up at her again, meeting her enthusiastic eyes with fear and horror.

  “What?”

  “Think of the good genes you and I have, Rolph: both serving SS officers, our Aryan pedigrees verified back several generations. We are perfect for such a programme. Bauer could see that straight away. The baby will get the best of everything: medical care, nourishment, intellectual stimulation. What better start for a new Aryan baby in this ambitious nation of ours?”

  Huber sighed deeply. He got out of bed, walking to the window where he put on his unterhosen to cover himself.

  “You don’t understand the dangers, Gudrun. It’s all still very experimental.” A silence enveloped them as Huber struggled with his deepest fears.

  “You could lose the baby. You could easily die. We have enormous challenges to overcome. I cannot stand by and watch something awful happen to you.”

  Gudrun was still smiling.

  “I have faith in you, Rolph, Professor Bauer has faith in you. I have faith in Oskar Pahmeyer and I believe in the cause of the Reich and the future of our nation. I want to do my part – more than just delivering hundreds of Aryan babies. I want to do something extraordinary, something special. This is my opportunity, our opportunity.”

  Huber felt nauseous. How could it be that the project he was so passionate about, so committed to, suddenly now seemed so utterly unreasonable and abhorrent up close? A part of him wished that he had met Gudrun before he had been assigned to Heim Hochland, before he had been immersed in this scientific madness, so that he and Gudrun could have raised their baby in innocence, as ordinary young parents.

  “I love you too much to let anything happen to you,” Huber said eventually, shaking his head.

  Gudrun climbed out of bed and pressed her nakedness warmly against him.

  “If you love me that much, then let me do this with you by my side, watching over me and our baby.”

  Huber’s mouth was too dry to speak.

  Forty-Seven

  “Where the hell have you been?” George barked at Henry as he entered the apartment.

  Henry looked confused. His clothing was untidily arranged and creased, his hair tousled, his face unshaven. The laces of one shoe had come undone and clicked on the floor as he walked. He shrugged.

  “It’s nearly eight o’clock. You’ve been missing since I woke up, three hours ago.”

  “I don’t remember. I must have been… walking,” Henry replied vaguely, looking down at the loose shoelace. He frowned and scratched his temple.

  “What’s that in your hand?” George asked.

  Henry looked down and saw that he was holding a jam doughnut with several bites taken out of it. His eyes widened.

  “I’ve never seen you handle food,” George said, her voice wavering slightly.

  “I don’t touch food,” Henry confirmed with a look of distaste, as though he was holding a piece of human faeces.

  Hastily, he put the doughnut down on the table and wiped his fingers on his trousers, leaving a trail of sugar on the dark blue material. George frowned.

  “What are you doing?” Henry said, noticing an open suitcase on the bed behind her.

  “I’ve been given the all clear to return to Cairo,” George said as she resumed folding clothes into her suitcase.

  Henry watched impassively from the doorway. He was surprised not
to be overcome by the usual sadness of impending separation. In fact, he wasn’t sure what he felt at that moment. He turned and looked at the half-eaten doughnut on the coffee table.

  “Are you still staying at the Radisson?” he asked casually.

  “The Hilton,” she corrected, like a school teacher.

  “Oh yes.”

  Henry walked back to the living-room and returned with a pad and pen.

  “Won’t you please write down the hotel details and numbers for me so that I can reach you, in case of an emergency.”

  Henry felt his heart pounding in his chest as George’s disapproving eyes flicked between his face and the pad in his hand.

  “You have my number,” she said with a puzzled look.

  “Please, humour me. You’ve already been injured once. I want to know exactly where you are.”

  George sighed and grabbed the pad out of his hand, resting it on her knee as she held the pen in her left-handed grip and scribbled. He studied the letter formation closely while trying to appear indifferent.

  “There you are,” George said, passing the pad and pen back to Henry. “Not sure what that’s about.”

  She continued to pack as Henry glanced at her handwriting on the pad.

  “Do you love her?” George said suddenly, without looking up, packing mechanically, performing a task she had done hundreds of times before in her travels.

  Henry snorted with indignation.

  “What a silly question.”

  George continued to pack.

  “It’s a fair question, I think. Either you do, or you don’t.”

  “She’s my sergeant, for God’s sake. That’s all.”

  “We both know you two have the hots for each other, Henry.”

  “She’s a work colleague who happens to be very attractive. Let’s face it, George, if you didn’t spend all your time away in Cairo we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

  George snapped her bright red suitcase shut and began to haul it off the bed. Henry rushed forward.