Werewolf

by Matthew Pritchard

  Ilse went to her Berlin house first, thinking she would be safe there, and then managed to escape the capital before the Russians encircled it. After that, what was left? Her parents’ house in Eichenrode was the only place she had to go.

  It took a week to drive there, each day more chaotic than the last as the Reich fell apart. When German soldiers took the car from her at gunpoint, she had to walk the last leg of her odyssey, more than thirty-six hours across country, dragging her suitcases behind her.

  She didn’t glimpse her conquerors until the third day of peace, when English soldiers knocked at the house and asked to see her papers.

  And that was when Ursula’s identity documents had become so useful.

  Dear dizzy, dim little Cousin Ursula, with her plaited hair and dirndl skirts. Oh, she’d danced with her share of SS officers and rattled collection tins for the Winterhilfswerk fund – but she’d never joined the Party. That fact was worth its weight in gold, now. The Tommies were arresting Party members and locking them up. Torturing them, some said. Ilse was damned if she would go to prison just because she’d done what millions of other Germans had done and hitched her horse to the Nazi wagon.

  After pretending to be Cousin Ursula a number of times, it was relatively simple to actually become her. There was a man in the town who had attached Ilse’s photographs to Ursula’s documents and the switch was made.

  Ilse had wondered at first whether posing as her cousin might be too obvious, but she was glad of her decision when she came to fill in the Fragebogen, the huge questionnaire the Tommies were making all Germans complete. There were more than a hundred sections, detailing membership of political parties and churches and Nazi organisations ranging from the SS and the Gestapo to the Kameradschaft USA; other sections enquired about speeches given, articles written, rallies and parades attended and all sorts of other personal questions about scars and census results and relatives who belonged to the Party. You couldn’t possibly hope to invent an identity; the questions were far too complex.

  But Cousin Ursula had spent so much time wittering on about her life that Ilse actually found it easy to think herself into Ursula’s shoes and the Tommies had swallowed her story. As far as they were concerned, she was Ursula Drechsler, aged thirty-four and unmarried. The fact that Ilse hadn’t returned to Eichenrode since her parents had died meant that the chances of anyone from the town recognising her were minimal. The set up was perfect . . .

  . . . until two days ago, when the old man in the cart had arrived, calling out at the door, speaking with a thick Prussian accent. Ilse had told him to leave without opening it, but then the old man had pulled back the covers of the cart and Ilse had realised that the bloodied, bruised thing that lay within was her cousin.

  ‘Men at the frontier,’ the old man had said, as if that explained everything.

  The only words Ursula had spoken in all the days that had followed were to ask for a bundle of letters from her bag. When Ilse fetched them she’d managed to read only the first line of the top one – ‘My darling Ursula’ – before Ursula had snatched them away and clutched them to her bosom. They were still there now, a crumpled mass tied together with blue ribbon, rising and falling softly as Ursula slept.

  Ilse rose, tiptoed away from the bed and went downstairs, taking the crooked steps one at a time. The farmhouse was a ruin. A heavy explosion had reduced the front rooms to a pile of rubble and soldiers had slept in the still habitable part at the rear: soldiers from both sides, to judge by the cans and ammunition crates dumped around the place. That wasn’t all they’d left, either: the pigs had pissed and shat all over.

  She stopped by the kitchen window to examine her reflection in the cracked glass, then looked down at the dowdy frock she wore, the woollen stockings, the heavy shoes. God, I look like an old washerwoman, Ilse thought. Small wonder people found no difficulty in mistaking her for Cousin Ursula.

  Still, I must possess something men want, Ilse thought with a faint smile, thinking now of the Englishman she had taken as her lover at the end of May.

  Ilse’s Tommy had arranged things with the military government so that the farmhouse would not be requisitioned. That was something at least. Half a roof over her head was better than nothing. After all, where else could she go? Since the Tommies invaded, there was no running water, no electricity, no post, no buses or trains, no coal or milk. In the town, people queued at a standpipe for hours to get water and they lived like troglodytes, crowded together in cellars.

  Besides, even if she had had somewhere else to go, how would she have got there? Germans weren’t allowed to go anywhere unless they had permits from the military authorities or the Red Cross – and it was damned risky even then. It was not a good time for Germans to be wandering the roads. Ilse had already been set upon once by a vengeful horde. That was how she had met the Tommy. He’d fired his pistol in the air and scared the bastards away. If it hadn’t been for him, she would probably have been killed. Or, worse, they could have left her like Cousin Ursula.

  No, this shattered hovel was the best she could hope for at the moment. She couldn’t imagine how other people were managing. Even with the food the Tommy brought her, she was still famished. The hunger was always there, in the pit of her stomach, sucking at her well-being from within. And at least her arrangement with the Tommy had the semblance of a relationship. She had seen the way many German women were surviving now, whoring themselves in bombed out buildings for tins of peaches and cigarettes.

  The floorboards above creaked and Cousin Ursula cried out; her groans echoed through the cracks in the house. She was having another of her attacks. Ilse rose wearily. She needed medicine, but where could she get it? And what sort of medicine? She had no idea what Cousin Ursula needed.

  She was about to go upstairs when she heard a vehicle coming towards the house. She peered through the window, ducking back when she saw her Tommy parking his jeep.

  She mustn’t let him inside: he might hear Cousin Ursula’s moans. It would raise too many questions.

  Ilse took a moment to arrange her hair in her reflection in the window, then slipped through the kitchen door and went round to meet the Tommy at the front of the house.

  ‘Liebling, what a lovely surprise,’ Ilse said, throwing her arms wide and beaming at him.

  ‘Hello, my darling Ursula,’ Captain James Booth said.

  5

  SILAS PAYNE PARKED his utility outside the Rathaus, the town hall building which was now home to the British military government in Eichenrode.

  He wasn’t overly fond of young Captain Booth, Payne decided. Perhaps it was the big words he had used: rapprochement, conflate. Payne had always mistrusted men who felt the need to show their learning so obviously. Or perhaps it was because Payne had met so many Captain Booths back in London, earnest young men fresh from university for whom ‘The War’ had been little more than an extended jolly.

  Look at the street names in Eichenrode. The first thing the Military Government had done on occupying the town was to remove all the street names with connections to the Nazi regime, but a competition had then begun among the junior officers to see who could find the replacement that would prove most irksome to the Germans: Churchill Platz, Eisenhower Straße; the former high street was now ‘El Allee Main’.

  But then Silas Payne had always disliked the Army, disliked anything that encouraged people to subsume themselves in a greater whole. No good ever came of mass emotion. He’d learned the truth of that when policing football matches as a young copper. Wasn’t the current state of the world proof that he was right?

  The Rathaus building was still dressed for war, with sandbags piled against the exterior wall and crosses of tape on the windows. Payne showed his ID to the guard at the door, then headed upstairs to Major Norris’s office.

  Norris led the CCG’s Public Safety Branch for the administrative district to the west of the city o
f Brunswick. As such, his duties and responsibilities were many and arduous; too arduous, to judge from the harassed, sleepless look of the man.

  Norris was in his early fifties, but had the air of a man with whom old age had caught up quickly and unexpectedly. When Payne walked upstairs to his office, he found the major trying to unravel some dispute between German civilians – not an easy task, given that Norris obviously spoke no German. He was followed wherever he went by an officious young German woman with a clipboard and pencil who translated for him. If it weren’t for Norris’s uniform, a casual observer would have thought the translator had been the person in charge.

  As Payne listened he realised that most of the time what she translated was not precisely what Norris had said; sometimes she would even add her own information. When Norris mentioned that Payne spoke German, though, she looked at him sharply and blushed. Her translations were scrupulously correct afterwards.

  How these men were supposed to govern the country without speaking German was beyond Payne, but that seemed to be the story of the occupation so far. If the war had demonstrated one thing about the British, it was the immense depth of their trust in muddling through somehow.

  It was twenty minutes before Norris had finished with the German civilians. Late afternoon sun filled the room as he invited Payne into his office.

  ‘Here we are, Detective Inspector, take a seat and tell me what you’ve managed to ascertain about this wretched business out by the Brunswick Road. They’re saying in the officers’ mess it was some sort of ad hoc field hospital.’

  Norris frowned when Payne failed to reply, then realised that the policeman was looking at his translator. ‘We shan’t be needing you for this, thank you, Fräulein Seiler.’

  The woman’s eyes met Payne’s for the briefest of moments. Then she smiled and left the room.

  ‘Indispensable,’ Norris said when she’d left. ‘And her father, too.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Doctor. He’s taken charge of the medical care at the civilian internment camp near town. We can’t have the chaps we lock up falling ill, can we? That wouldn’t be very civilised, would it? No, we’ve got to work on rebuilding the world, now, get things back to how they were before all this bloody mess started.’

  Norris sucked a Bismuth tablet as he listened to Payne’s report, one hand on his stomach.

  ‘So, Captain Booth agreed with your assessment?’ he said when Payne had finished.

  ‘Yes. He seemed to think the field hospital theory very unlikely. He thought the same about the involvement of werewolves.’

  ‘But what were the drugs you found?’

  ‘I’m still trying to ascertain that.’

  ‘Surely that lends credence to the field hospital theory?’

  ‘It’s a strange kind of hospital that strangles its patients.’

  Norris thought about that, staring at the window. ‘Do you think this Beagley chap and his boys might have been dispensing a bit of summary justice? Found out this chap was SS and did him in?’

  Payne shook his head. ‘Beagley seemed genuinely surprised when I spotted the SS tattoo. And, if they had killed them, why would they report it? But I can’t rule out the possibility that other British personnel were involved. And I’m certain that Sergeant Beagley was hiding something – the theft of the victims’ belongings, most likely. That’s why I asked if you could speak to Beagley’s commanding officer.’

  ‘Yes, I got your message about that and we’re in luck. Turns out the CO is a friend of my bridge partner.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, as you can understand, I couldn’t very well just weigh in and start accusing people of theft – Sergeant Beagley has an impeccable war record, after all. But I did mention the matter and the CO applied some pressure in the right quarters.’

  Norris rose, walked to a corner cupboard and withdrew a large brown paper parcel tied with string, which he placed on the desk.

  ‘It seems some of the victims’ clothing had gone walkabout. This is what has been sent over.’

  Payne cut the string with his penknife and unfolded the paper. Inside was a selection of sturdy, practical clothing, both male and female: trousers, vests, skirts. The only remarkable item was a long ebony dress in a tailor’s box. As Payne opened the tissue paper in which the dress was wrapped, a waft of apples and pears rose to greet him. The dress was made of silk; silver embroidered butterflies fluttered down from one shoulder strap and across the bodice.

  ‘Is this all of it?’ Payne said. ‘It doesn’t seem very much. And this clothing must have been inside something. Were there any bags or suitcases?’

  The pained look returned to Norris’s face; he cradled his belly protectively. ‘It’s all we’re going to get. I’ve stepped on enough toes as it is getting you that.’

  ‘With all due respect, Major, two people have been murdered. And if the world is ever going to ‘get back to normal’, the concept of murder has to start meaning something again sooner or later.’

  Norris looked at Payne as if trying to decide whether he were serious. When he realised he was, he said, ‘Oh yes, well of course, you’re perfectly right. Couldn’t agree more. What was it Churchill said at the beginning of the war? You know, the thing about us having to win the war so the world could move forward into something-or-other.’

  ‘Broad uplit sunlands.’

  ‘Precisely, Detective Inspector. Broad uplit sunlands. Let’s go forward and find them, eh? Show the world the efficiency of British justice. But let’s do so without upsetting any apple carts. No murky diversions. No fuss.’

  ‘Fuss?’

  Norris winced, as if Payne’s failure to understand caused him genuine pain. ‘What I mean, to put it into words of one syllable, is that if you intimate that British soldiers have been murdering Germans, you’re going to get yourself into hot water. And when the supposed murder victim is ex-Waffen SS, then said water is going to get very hot, very, very quickly. Do I make myself clear? You’re not going to make yourself any friends out here if you’re seen to be taking the Germans’ side.’

  ‘Police work is not conducive to popularity as a rule, Major.’

  ‘Well, just tread easily. These regular army chaps are already looking down their noses at the CCG. Let’s not give them anything to crow about, eh?’

  When Payne reached the door, Norris said suddenly, ‘I’m not going to regret putting you in charge of this, am I, Detective Inspector Payne?’ – as if he’d spent the whole conversation putting off asking that one question.

  Payne paused in the doorway. ‘That depends on whether you want to know the truth or not, sir.’

  Norris reached for another Bismuth tablet. That did not seem to be the answer he’d hoped for.

  Payne took the package of clothing and went downstairs. On his way out of the Rathaus, he passed a room where three women in ATS uniforms were working. Payne paused as he listened to the clack of their typewriters. Then he went back and knocked on the door.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies. I don’t suppose you could spare me a minute, could you?’

  The three women crowded round when Payne put the tailor’s box on the table and withdrew the long silk dress.

  ‘Lord, look at that, Angie,’ the youngest of the ATS women said. ‘What an absolute beauty. Look at the embroidery. I haven’t seen anything like this since before the war.’

  ‘And even then, it was only with your nose pressed up against a shop window.’

  ‘Too right. I’ll bet this cost 10 guineas. Where on earth did you find it, Detective Inspector? Is it for sale?’

  Payne smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s part of an investigation actually. I’d just like a woman’s opinion on it, if you ladies wouldn’t mind. I’m a bit out of my depth when it comes to dresses.’

  ‘Well, for starters, this isn’t a ‘dress’, it’s
an evening gown.’

  ‘Where might you buy it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t buy it; you’d have it made especially.’

  ‘Do you mean to say this is a one off?’

  ‘Of course, it is,’ Angie said. ‘You don’t think any woman able to afford something like this would risk having someone else turn up wearing the same dress, do you? This will be the fellow who made it, I imagine,’ she said, pointing to an address on the inside of the box lid for which Payne had not even thought to look. ‘Maurice Petiot, Rue La Salle, Paris. Ooh, doesn’t that sound posh?’

  Payne thanked the women and went back upstairs to Norris’s office, feeling pleased with himself. It was one of the basic rules of good police investigation: if you knew nothing about a subject, always ask someone who did.

  ‘Do you have a French dictionary and a telephone I can borrow?’ he said to Norris.

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘I need to call someone in Paris.’

  It took Payne an hour to get the Paris telephone number for the tailor and another hour to get connected. Payne’s French was of schoolboy standard, but he had a French-speaking intelligence officer provide him with a detailed description of the dress and the other vocabulary he would need.

  The line crackled as the phone rang, then a man’s voice answered.

  ‘Yes, I am Monsieur Petiot,’ the tobacco-hoarse voice said in response to Payne’s query.

  Payne began to explain who he was in faltering French, but Petiot said, ‘Yes, yes, but what do you want?’

  ‘An evening gown you made. If I describe it to you, might you remember it?’

  ‘Might I remember it, Monsieur? Each article of clothing I produce is unique. I burn the patterns once each one is completed.’

  Payne had ten lines of French describing the material and style of the dress. Petiot interrupted him halfway through the third.

  ‘A full-length evening gown in black silk with a halter neck and a bow brooch at the back? Butterflies in silver lace? I began to make it April 3rd, 1943. I finished it on the evening of the 5th. And that was only because a supplier failed to get me the taffeta I needed.’