“You speak very good German, mein Herr. For the lady I will speak English, ja?”
Henry glanced around at Natasha, who acknowledged the woman’s gesture with a smile before approaching the low wooden counter. On the right-hand side was a polished brass bell, as one might find on the concierge’s desk in any hotel lobby, on the left, a Siemens desk computer and monitor.
“Why do you want this birth information?” the woman asked in stiff tones, sounding very much like an interrogator.
“We are British police, investigating a series of murders,” Henry replied, displaying his identity badge to the woman.
She took hold of it between elongated, bony fingers that reminded Natasha of the wicked witch in Hansel and Gretel, and studied it carefully. Natasha stepped forward as a token gesture, but the woman was intent on scrutinizing her badge as well.
“Very well, ja, do you have their details?”
Henry produced a sheet of paper with the names and dates of birth of Jeremy Haysbrook, Vera Schmidt, David Barnabus, Luc Bezier and Francois Pequignot on it. The clerk studied it, peering at the list closely.
“Most of these are English names, ja, and French?” She fixed Henry with a disbelieving stare.
“They were all born in Steinhöring, according to their passports,” he said, pushing photocopies of the victims’ passports towards her.
She looked down again and dissected the sheets of paper as her bony finger meticulously traced the lines of information.
“Birth certificates?”
“I’m afraid not,” Henry said.
He glanced at Natasha. His scalp itched a little, but not nearly as much as it had, as most of the scabs had now dropped off. He resisted the urge to scratch.
“I’ll check the dates of birth first,” the woman suggested, shifting to face the computer keyboard which her bony fingers began to attack.
Henry nodded, thinking of the letter he had received from the genealogy services in London. His first registered name at school was Heinrich Weber. It was entirely possible that some form of Anglicisation had been applied to Jeremy Haysbrook and David Barnabus and similarly, in France, to Luc Bezier and Francois Pequignot.
“I’m afraid there is nothing that matches any of these dates,” said the woman, looking up at Henry, almost with satisfaction.
“Are you sure?” Henry mistakenly asked.
The woman lowered her chin and fixed him with a glare over the top of her spectacles.
“Ja, I am sure.”
Natasha stepped forward.
“But their official documents all state that their place of birth is right here in Steinhöring. It doesn’t seem to be a very big place, so where could the records be?” she said.
The woman considered each of them in turn impassively. She would have been good at interrogations, Henry thought. Was she hiding something, or was it simply officiousness that made her so bristly?
“Between about 1935 and 1946 official birth records for Steinhöring are incomplete. Thereafter they are better but still not complete.” She shrugged, making no apology but stating a fact, a consequence of history.
The expression on her face matched the folding of her arms across her chest. She was closed.
“Is that it then?” Natasha said in exasperation, imagining how they would face Superintendent Bruce upon their return, empty-handed.
The woman sighed deeply.
“I am sorry. There is no record of those births on my system.”
Henry gathered his documents together and thanked the woman. As they walked out of the registry, the portly man with his Doberman looked surreptitiously at Henry, then looked away sharply. Henry heard him addressing the clerk in German as they exited the building. Outside the air was filled with tiny fruit flies and dust driven into the atmosphere by the combine harvesters.
“I’m hungry,” Henry announced.
“I’m thirsty,” Natasha concurred.
“It’s a half-hour drive to Ebersberg, so let’s eat at the Bräuhaus over there first,” he suggested, pointing to a cheery-looking tavern diagonally across from them.
Seated on rough wooden tables outside the white building, decorated with dark brown window-boxes, a handful of patrons wearing hats and braces sipped at tankards of beer. Henry and Natasha went inside, stooping to clear the low doorway, and then chose a corner table. The tavern was fitted out with dark wooden furnishings and a giant open hearth with black cast iron grate and fire tools that exuded a strong smell of stale wood smoke.
“Why does everything smell of garlic in this country?” Natasha asked, wrinkling her nose.
The bearded kellner, who reminded Natasha of the woodsman in Little Red Riding Hood, stepped up to their table with his vast belly straining the sinews of a sturdy leather apron.
“Zwei grosser Pilsener, bitte,” Henry said as the kellner dropped two laminated menus on to the roughly hewn wooden table.
“What have you ordered for me?” Natasha asked, loosening her ponytail and fluffing the fine golden hair out with a shake of her head.
“A small beer,” he said. “I do like it when you tie your hair back, by the way.”
Natasha pulled a face at him as the waiter returned with two generous tankards of beer, adorned with huge frothy heads.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, sir?”
Henry clinked his glass against Natasha’s and buried his face in the froth that quivered on the amber liquid.
“You’ll not tell Bruce about this, will you?” he said, casually.
Natasha blushed. Did he know, she wondered, or was it simply a casual remark? She looked away, ashamed, and picked up the menu.
“I would go with sausage, potato mash and cabbage, then you too can reek of garlic,” Henry suggested as they perused the menus.
Henry heard the click of the Doberman’s claws before he noticed the large man with the earring approaching their table.
“Ist hier frei?” the man asked politely, before sitting down on a bench at the table opposite.
“Ja?” Henry replied, making a welcoming gesture with his outstretched arm.
The man was very fat, his skin discoloured and covered in moles. A bushy grey moustache that framed his mouth was stained yellow from nicotine. The Doberman sat obediently at his knee, looking up at him uncertainly.
“I speak English, I heard you at the registry office.”
“Yes?” Henry said, frowning.
“You are Polizei?”
“From London, yes.”
“You are looking for some people born here in Steinhöring – during the war – perhaps?”
Henry and Natasha exchanged a furtive glance. Was this progress, or was this trouble? Natasha gently nudged Henrik’s knee with her foot.
“Just after the war, yes,” Henry said, cautiously.
The man hesitated, his eyes flicking between Henry and Natasha as his great belly heaved from laboured breathing.
“Why?” he asked.
Henry licked his lips and wondered whether he should take a chance.
“They have all been murdered and we’re trying to find out why.”
The man patted his dog’s neck with a fleshy hand. Henry noticed that behind the concealment of his moustache his teeth were broken and blackened.
“There are no records at the Steinhöring Geburt Eintragung, ja?”
Henry nodded.
“I’m assuming you heard that much, yes.”
The man shuffled forward on his bench, leaning closer to Henry. The odours of onion, garlic and nicotine on his breath intensified, making Henry hold his breath momentarily.
“People do not like to speak about these matters in Steinhöring.”
“What matters?”
“The terrible things that happened here under the Nazis – many people are still in denial, in shock, perhaps even shame.”
Henry twisted around in his seat to face the man squarely. He sensed the promising beginnings of progress in their investigation.
>
“Are you suggesting that the woman at the registry office was witholding information?”
“No,” the man belched with a slight grin. “Most birth records from the 1930s and 1940s were lost or destroyed here in Steinhöring. I’m sure the old cow at the registry office does not have them. But I’m suggesting she has no wish to find them either.”
Henry frowned, trying to decipher the man’s motivation for finding them in the Bräuhaus.
“Do you know how to find them?”
The kellner arrived with a pad and pen and stood beside Natasha with his head angled enquiringly to one side.
“Zwei Bratwürste mit Kartoffeln und Kohl, bitte,” Henry said, summoning a smile.
“Rotkohl?” The kellner began to write.
“Ja, bitte,” Henry replied.
The man nodded, scribbled and with a perfunctory, dismissive glance towards the visitor and his dog, turned and walked away. The fat man watched the kellner move beyond earshot before continuing.
“There are people who know what happened here all those years ago. You should talk to this man. He will be able to help you. He lives only a few streets away, in Wöllingerstrasse, seventeen. His name is Dieter Schröder. Tell him you were sent by me.”
Henry nodded.
“Got that, Sergeant?” he said without looking at Natasha.
“And who are you again, sir?” he said.
The man grinned, revealing his wrecked dentition, and emitted a deep rattling cough. The dog stood up, ready to leave.
“The fat man with the Doberman. He’ll know.”
“Thank you,” Henry said. “Can I buy you a beer?”
“No!” the man said emphatically, pulling the impatient Doberman towards him with a yank of the chain. “This Bräuhaus was frequented by the SS and is still decorated with some of their booty.”
He glanced across at a magnificently carved mahogany wall clock that ticked away languidly, oblivious to the passage of time, its provenance, or the significance thereof.
“I will not drink in this place.”
“Why are you helping us?” Henry asked.
The man stood up and restrained the eager Doberman with another firm pull on the chain.
“People must know what took place in this innocent and sleepy village all those years ago. It cannot simply be swept under the carpet, ignored, erased. Some of those affected are still alive.”
He touched his forehead in silent farewell and lumbered out of the Bräuhaus to the staccato clicking of his dog’s claws on the stone floor.
Henry and Natasha looked at each other silently over the enticing aromas of their sizzling Bratwurst, placed on the table by the kellner. Suddenly Henry jumped to his feet.
“I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t wait for me.”
He dashed out of the Bräuhaus in pursuit of the fat man and his Doberman. Natasha’s forkful of Kartoffel and Rotkohl remained suspended in mid air, inches from her waiting mouth. She stared at the food. Why on earth had Henry chased after the fat man? What did he want to ask him?
Then she savoured the wholesome, warm food in her mouth and accepted that he was simply desperate in his quest to discover his origins. Naturally, he would leave no stone unturned.
Fifty
March 1939, Steinhöring
“Come, quickly, Doctor, one of the children has been hurt!”
Although Heim Hochland was home to dozens of small children, in addition to babies and mothers, it was rare for Huber to have any direct involvement with them. An SS paediatrician visited regularly to check on their health and progress, providing each child with a full medical examination every few months.
“What is it?” Huber said, hurrying up to the nurse where she knelt beside a small boy in the garden.
Her starched white uniform was smeared with streaks of fresh blood, perhaps where she had wiped her hands, or where the boy had wiped his.
“He has cut his forehead,” the nurse said, trying to pacify the crying boy.
Huber knelt down. Blood ran down the boy’s face and dripped on to his striped blue and white shirt. Tears that ran from his nose and eyes, together with bubbly saliva that flowed from his anguished mouth, mixed with the blood to form pinkish mucus that was smeared everywhere.
“What is your name?” Huber said to the boy as he tried to get a closer look at the laceration.
“Jurgen,” the boy sobbed.
“How old are you, Jurgen?”
The boy looked confused and cried louder.
“He is only four, Doctor,” the nurse replied.
“What happened?” Huber carefully studied the wound and then looked at the nurse. “This is a nasty, jagged laceration.”
The nurse stood up and pointed towards the perimeter fencing.
“Some children from the village were throwing rocks at Jurgen and his friends as they played.”
“But why?” Huber said, horrified.
The nurse sighed.
“The villagers are jealous of the children in here, Doctor. They see how well they dress, eat, how healthy they are, they know that special treatment is meted out here to the…”
She did not say it, but Huber knew what she meant. Sixty per cent of the mothers were unmarried at Heim Hochland. Fraternization with SS officers was encouraged and pregnancy was applauded. Steinhöring was a small, conservative, rural village and such liberalism in their midst was not well received.
Huber frowned.
“Does this happen often?”
“Yes, Doctor, but rarely do the children get injured. Usually it is verbal abuse by the villagers directed at the pregnant women and the children. It is no secret that they despise what we do here.”
This concerned Huber, for he understood the disparity between living standards in Heim Hochland and those across vast swathes of the Reich. He knew how his family were struggling to obtain enough food and they were, compared to many, relatively privileged.
“Come on, bring him in. I’ll need to clean that wound and possibly suture it.”
Huber stared back at the fence as the nurse ushered the little boy into the main building, past staring mothers who wandered between rows of wicker baskets in which their babies slept in the sunshine. Huber tried to imagine how those outside the fence must view those lucky enough to be inside. Is that how it is, he thought, are these women and children in Heim Hochland lucky to be here? Are the children fortunate to be baptised under the gilded promises of a Nazi dagger?
He was about to follow the nurse and Jurgen when Oskar came striding across purposefully.
“Come quickly, Rolph, Gudrun is bleeding!”
Huber’s heart skipped a beat and for a second he could not move. With cold shivers running down his spine, he followed Oskar back to the unit, white coat tails flaring. Images of the fatal placental abruption that had both welcomed him to the project unit and claimed the life of a healthy young woman flashed unpleasantly into his mind.
Gudrun was lying in her bed surrounded by nurses in starched white uniforms and bonnets. One held her wrist and counted her pulse; another mopped her brow with a damp cloth; a third held her left ear to a foetal stethoscope pressed against Gudrun’s swollen belly.
“She started bleeding an hour ago and it has not stopped,” Oskar said as they approached the bed. “Not massive bleeding and the baby is fine, but it cannot be allowed to go on for too long.”
Gudrun opened her frightened eyes and stared at Huber. He smiled back, wishing he could rush over and comfort her.
“What do you think it is?” he asked quietly.
“Initially I thought perhaps premature labour, but now I am favouring a placental abruption.”
“As a result of the injections?”
Oskar hesitated, the eyelid twitching irritably around his right eye.
“Probably.” He looked down and sighed.
Huber paused. Fear gripped his mind and paralysed its ability to think clearly.
“The baby will die.”
> Oskar nodded.
“Unless we deliver it, now.”
Huber shrank back in horror. In truth he had been dreading this moment ever since Gudrun had entered the unit, knowing that at some point the process would be terminated by a delivery – something he had come to dread as a very risky undertaking, especially when they were stimulating brain and head growth as aggressively as they were.
“Will it survive?” Huber asked.
“Gudrun is nearly thirty-six weeks now. It is early, but definitely survivable.”
“What if the head is too big?” Huber said, apprehensively.
Oskar sighed.
“I think we should proceed straight to Caesarean section under these circumstances. The baby will not survive a prolonged and difficult labour.”
“No!” Huber said, slightly louder than he had intended, such was his shock. Several nurses turned their heads. Even Gudrun’s fearful eyes widened as she heard Oskar and Huber disagreeing about how to proceed.
“Quiet!” Oskar whispered, raising a finger to his lips.
“She will surely develop puerperal fever. I cannot watch that happen to her.”
Oskar stepped closer to Huber, their faces just inches apart.
“We need that Prontosil, Rolph. Where is it?”
Huber balled his hand into a fist. He had approached Bauer about the antibiotic and received only a tepid response. Bauer, he surmised, was too frightened of angering Göring.
“I would like to examine Matron’s pulse, please,” Huber announced as he approached Gudrun.
The nurses parted and he took her warm hand in his, meeting her frightened eyes. She was breathing rapidly, her belly rising and falling almost in time with the ticking clock on the wall.
“What will happen?” she whispered.
Huber’s eyes did not falter. He looked right into Gudrun’s trusting soul, knowing that he could not lie.
“Oskar thinks we should deliver the baby by Caesarean section right away.”
He could see her lips tremble as she took this in.
“Will you give me the ether?” Gudrun said with a slight frown and a hint of an expectant smile.
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