“Of course.”
She nodded slowly.
“It’s very dangerous, isn’t it?”
Huber fought back his own fear, trying to remain calm for Gudrun’s sake.
“Is there any other way?” She squeezed his hand, drawing him nearer.
Huber looked down at her small hand gripping his so tightly that her knuckles blanched.
“Yes, but it would probably require that we destroy the foetus to deliver it through the pelvis.”
Using the word ‘foetus’ seemed so distant, so indifferent, so detached from the reality of his paternal bond to the living child within his beloved Gudrun. But Gudrun understood and accepted that she had made her choice some time ago.
“No, we cannot do that. The baby is precious, too special to be destroyed.” Gudrun wavered, her face suddenly creasing up before her sheer will-power took control. “Let Oskar cut the baby out.”
Huber smiled at her, sharing not only a moment of solidarity of purpose, of mind and of heart, but also their foreboding and disappointment. Deep down, he was terrified for Gudrun’s safety. He could not bear the thought of watching her burn up and melt away with puerperal fever, as Magda had done.
Watching Magda die, slowly, the inevitability of it mocking and sapping his belief, making him feel impotent as a doctor, had reminded him too much of his poor wife, Liesel. He knew that being forced to relive such an experience with Gudrun might break him.
Fifty-One
Superintendent Steven Bruce, sitting at his desk with the phone pressed to his ear, waited patiently to be connected to Haxton Guinney.
“Professor Guinney?” Bruce said eventually, becoming animated suddenly as though his batteries had been changed.
“Yes. Is that Inspector Webber?” Guinney said, uncertainly.
“No, Professor, I am his Divisional Superintendent, Steven Bruce.”
“Ah, the guv’nor,” Guinney replied. “What can I do for you, Superintendent?”
Bruce cleared his throat.
“Do you recall those skin specimens you analysed for us, the tattoos?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How many did you analyse?”
A brief silence ensued.
“Let me see now, there were two initially, then a third that Inspector Webber brought to me, the one from North America and finally one sent to me by Dr Chowdry in Durham. They all matched. I sent you a report, didn’t I, confirming the same ink had been used in all the tattoos?”
“Yes, yes, Professor, there is no question about the tests or the matches as such.”
“Oh.”
Bruce tapped the unsharpened end of a pencil pensively on the square pad of paper on his desk.
“You say the third specimen was given to you by Inspector Webber, in person?”
“Yes, he brought it to me on dry ice in a human tissues container.”
“Who did it belong to?”
A pause on the line.
“You know, I have no idea, Superintendent. He just said to call him directly with the result, which I did.”
Bruce drew a box on the pad.
“Was it a fresh specimen?”
“Yes, the freshest of the three. Most of the others were pretty… ripe… shall we say?”
“Inspector Webber didn’t give any indication of where the specimen originated?”
“No, Superintendent, not that I recall.”
Bruce looked up at the calendar on the wall beside his desk. On it he had scribbled in today’s square: Webber and Keeler to Steinhöring. He wondered what they were up to in that small, remote Bavarian village.
“Do you still have the specimens?” Bruce said, drawing a second box underneath the first.
“Of course.”
“Would you kindly return them to me at Scotland Yard, marked urgent and for my attention?”
“Is something wrong, Superintendent?” Guinney asked, sounding anxious.
“You don’t have any notion of where the third specimen that DCI Webber brought to you came from, do you?”
“I rather thought that was your job, Superintendent. I just analyze them.”
Bruce could not help thinking of the surgical wound that had appeared on the back of Henry’s head, seemingly out of the blue. He hoped he was wrong. Henry was too good a police officer to do something so foolish.
Fifty-Two
Heim Hochland
Steinhöring
Bavaria
Standartenführer Bauer
Kaiser Wilhelm Institute of Anthropology, Human
Heredity and Eugenics
Centre for Brain Research
Berlin
31 March 1939
Dear Professor Bauer
I write to you on a very grave matter of the utmost urgency. You may recall our last discussion about the high incidence of puerperal sepsis that is commonly encountered after Caesarean section delivery.
Sturmbannführer Pahmeyer has indicated that more and more of our project babies will require delivery by Caesarean section, due to the increasing size of their heads and consequent inability to pass through the pelvic canal for natural vaginal delivery. Puerperal sepsis is a life-threatening complication to be expected in half of these cases and at present we have no effective treatment for this condition.
I hope you will recall my urgent plea for you to obtain supplies of the new sulpha drug, Prontosil, developed recently in Wüppertal. I believe Gerhard Domagk has been nominated for a Nobel Prize for his outstanding work, indicative of the success of this drug in combating life-threatening fevers. Sturmbannführer Pahmeyer and I both feel that without this drug our program will be doomed to certain failure.
A most serious situation has arisen that requires immediate action, however, with no room for further complacency or procrastination. Our Matron, Sturmbannführer Nauhaus, suffered early placental abruption following her last intrauterine injection of thyroid hormone extract and has had to undergo urgent Caesarean delivery to save the baby.
I am pleased to report, Professor, for you will appreciate the personal significance to me, that the baby boy is healthy and a perfect specimen, representative of our programme’s ideals in every way. However, Sturmbannführer Pahmeyer and I are deeply concerned that Matron might develop puerperal sepsis post Caesarean delivery. If she does, the only drug that can save her life is Prontosil.
I urge you to give this your most immediate attention.
Your faithful servant,
Sturmbannführer Rolph Huber
“I want this in Standartenführer Bauer’s hands tonight, understand?” Huber said with a sharpness in his voice as he handed the envelope to an armed driver wearing a dark grey tunic with SS insignia on the lapels.
“Yes, Sturmbannführer!” the driver said, clicking his heels and saluting with a straight arm and outstretched hand. He turned on his heels, with the brown envelope clutched firmly in his hand, and exited the building to a waiting Stabswagen that immediately revved up and pulled away in a cloud of dust and choking blue petrol fumes.
Huber closed his office door, straightened his white coat and clicked his way down the shiny, tiled corridor to the postnatal ward. Inside Gudrun was being tended by two nurses giving her a sponge bath on her face, chest and arms.
Huber stood discreetly at the door, waiting for them to finish, before approaching Gudrun upon their hurried departure. He sat down beside her and took her hand in his. It was very warm. Her face looked flushed.
“How are you, my darling?” he said quietly, massaging her hand.
“Fine, just warm,” Gudrun replied with a weak smile. “How is the baby?”
“He is the picture of health, a fine healthy boy of nine pounds. Can you believe it?”
They stared adoringly into each other’s eyes in silence.
“How is the vomiting?” Huber asked.
Gudrun managed a small laugh.
“It’s better, thank you. I hate that ether!”
Huber smiled, trying to hide his conc
ern. Gudrun was warm, too warm for his liking, and her pulse was hammering away at his measuring fingertip on her wrist: one hundred, one hundred and ten, one hundred and twenty beats per minute. He cursed having not chased up Bauer’s failure to deliver the Prontosil sooner.
Already he could see fine beads of perspiration reforming on her upper lip and forehead, just minutes after her cooling sponge bath. He felt as if the hand of fate was reaching into his chest and squeezing his heart, for he could barely breathe.
“Have you seen Oskar?” Huber asked.
“Yes,” she nodded, closing her eyes for a moment. “He is happy with my progress so far.”
Huber was certain that Oskar had put on a brave face for Gudrun. He would surely not have missed the early signs of impending puerperal sepsis.
“When you are recovered, my dear, you must return to the main building and resume your usual duties where I can still keep a close eye on you. Perhaps we can move into that big room at the end of the top floor, together.” Huber smiled and rubbed Gudrun’s nose playfully.
He meant every word with heartfelt sincerity, hoping with all his might that they would both live to see it come to fruition.
“I’d like that,” she whispered, pulling his hand down and kissing the knuckles, her sweaty lips lingering on his skin.
Her eyes closed and her chest heaved as her body fought its desperate fight against a growing army of bacterial invaders that had gained unsolicited access to her abdominal cavity through the Caesarean section incision. It would be a grim fight to the death and there could, Huber feared, be only one victor.
Fifty-Three
The house on Wöllingerstrasse turned out to be small and rather shabby. Rotting wooden flower boxes beneath the windows were devoid of the colourful blooms evident up and down the street. Instead, a few scrawny dried weeds hung over the edges of these boxes, testimony to their prolonged neglect. The square front garden was overgrown and unkempt, the grass just about concealing the red paint that was flaking off the heads of a few garden gnomes. Natasha checked the number, frowning. It was correct: seventeen.
“What’s that sound?” Henry said, approaching the faded wooden front door.
Natasha listened carefully.
“Cats, I think,” she said.
“Cats?”
They knocked. After a while they knocked again.
“Wer ist da?” A man’s voice called from behind the door.
“Polizei. Öffnen Sie die Tür, bitte.”
Eventually, the protracted clunks and rattles of numerous bolts and locks being unfastened was followed by the slow creak of the door as it opened. A suspicious face appeared, eyes narrowing as they inspected Henry and Natasha on the doorstep.
“Dieter Schröder?” Henry said.
The man’s eyes darted between their faces.
“Ja?”
Henry held up his Metropolitan Police identity badge and Natasha followed suit.
“You are Englanders?” Schröder said. Surprise and relief washed over his face.
“Yes, do you speak English?” Henry said, with a smile.
“Ja, not too good, but… come in, come in,” he said, pulling the door open wide and then trying to shoo away a cluster of at least eight cats of different colours that flocked around his legs. “Aus dem Weg, meine kleinen.”
The house reeked of animal fur, cat urine, and something else: the smell of burning paraffin, reminiscent of an airport. As they entered the cramped, untidy living-room, it became apparent what the smell was: melting candle wax. Schröder, it appeared, moulded candles as a hobby. Scattered across the dining-table were candles of every conceivable shape and colour, many of them lit. They adorned the crowded mantelpiece as well, making the room seem more like a shrine than a home. On top of a small paraffin stove a blackened pot, filled with molten candle wax, steamed away silently.
“Please forgive the mess, I… er… live alone,” Schröder said, trying to clear the few worn chairs in the room of books, papers, cats, empty plates and candles.
Cats meowed everywhere, following Schröder like the Piper of Hamelin, as though he had cat food in his pockets and would feed them on demand. They were long-haired cats with very flat faces, copper eyes and bushy tails.
“Persians, Angoras or Himalayans?” Henry asked, admiring a friendly red cat that brushed up against him.
“Please, sit, sit,” Schröder said, gesticulating left and right with his arms and looking flustered. “They are… er… Perserkatze, is that Persians?”
Henry nodded. Dieter Schröder was tall, at least six foot three, square-shouldered, perhaps slightly paunchy but clearly of former athletic build. His blond hair shone like silvery-golden thread, except where it was thinning on the very top of his head. Blue eyes sparkled within a proudly boned face, distinguished by a solid jaw line and perfect nose. His left earlobe was pierced and in it he wore a single gold band, like a pirate sailor. Henry estimated that Schröder was in his late sixties.
“I have never seen Englander Polizei before,” he chuckled as he tried to squeeze beside three cats on a small bench. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“You haven’t done anything, Mr Schröder. We were given your name and address by… the… er, fat man with the Doberman.”
“Dieter, please, nobody calls me Mr Schröder, except when I collect my pension.” He chuckled again, his blue eyes sparkling.
“My name is Inspector Webber and this is Sergeant Keeler.”
Schröder nodded, smiled and licked his lips. Suddenly he turned and switched off the paraffin stove behind him. A cat climbed into his lap. Another was trying to climb into Natasha’s lap, sniffing curiously at her clothing.
“We have come to Steinhöring looking for information about five people who have been murdered, all of whom were born here, but…”
“There are no records, ja?” Schröder’s eyes lit up as if he had uncovered an ancient treasure.
He stood up and walked across to an old piano, constructed from yellowish wood and bearing two ornate brass candelabras attached above the keyboard. Each candelabrum held one of Schröder’s colourful handmade candles.
“Schnapps?” he said, lifting a bottle filled with clear spirit off the piano.
Natasha looked at Henry and raised her eyebrows. Henry shrugged in reply. He wanted to be friendly.
“Thank you.”
“You too, fraülein?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He handed the small glasses, filled to the brim with schnapps, to each of them before sitting down again and raising his glass high above his head.
“Prost!”
Schröder downed his schnapps with a backward snap of his head. Henry made a good imitation of this, but coughed. Natasha sipped hers and then found herself fighting for breath. Schröder wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while he studied Henry.
“I trust the fat man. He and I have a lot in common,” Schröder said.
“Can you help us trace these people?” Henry asked once the fierce sting of alcohol had receded in the back of his throat and his voice had recovered.
Schröder picked up a passing cat and stroked it in his lap.
“They were murdered, you said?”
Henry nodded.
“Why?”
Henry raised an index finger.
“We don’t know for certain, but I believe that their common origin here in Steinhöring has something to do with it.”
Schröder narrowed his eyes and stared back blandly at Henry. He wasn’t biting easily and Henry felt he needed to pique his interest to get him talking, to somehow tease the information out of him.
“Almost all birth records around the Second World War, and even for some time afterwards, were lost or destroyed,” Schröder said slowly, enunciating his words carefully, confirming what the officious woman at the Registry office had already told them.
Henry sighed, wondering if this was going to be another dead end, another lead that ran dry wit
hout yielding anything informative. Had the fat man been bluffing? Was Schröder bluffing?
“Yes, we have been told that. Do you have the victims’ exact dates of birth there, Natasha?” he said, gesticulating towards her.
Natasha opened her bag and extracted a sheet of paper which she passed to Schröder. He squinted at it before fumbling for a pair of frameless reading glasses on the piano and placing these halfway up his nose.
“1963; 1971; 1961; 1948; 1976. Some of these names sound English, some French, and one is German.” Schröder lowered the paper and frowned at Henry over the top of his glasses.
“I’ll tell you something confidential, Dieter,” Henry said, sitting forward in his seat and glancing at Natasha. “All the victims were tattooed on the back of their heads. We now know that they were all tattooed as babies and also that they were all tattooed with the same ink.”
Schröder’s face paled. He pulled the glasses off his nose and looked at Natasha, seemingly for confirmation. She nodded slowly. Henry watched Schröder’s face, hoping that his gamble to introduce the tattoos so early would pay off. He felt a sense of desperation gnawing at his customary confidence.
“Like this?” Schröder said, standing up suddenly, turning around and bowing his head forwards.
Discernible through the pale, thinning blond hairs at the back of his head was a blue-black faded tattoo: G1. Henrik felt the irresistible urge to scratch the scar at the back of his head as the adrenaline suddenly surged and made his heart pump faster, thumping against the wall of his chest.
“Exactly like that,” he said. He felt as though he had seen a ghost.
He realized in that instant that he and Schröder were almost certainly tattooed with the same ink, perhaps even with the same needle, and more unsettling, perhaps even by the same person. Suddenly it hit him: how could he be certain that he and Schröder were not somehow related to each other? Were all the victims related? Were some of them related? Was that the connection?
“Different numbers but the same letter ‘G’ in the other tattoos,” Natasha added.
Schröder sat down, his face now drawn and his former ebullience apparently extinguished.
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