Into Darkness

by Anton Gill

  Hoffmann had to go on living. He had business to attend to, and, not being an officer trained in the traditional Prussian school, he had no desire to die. Tresckow was scared of being tortured, and he was enough of a realist to guess that he'd crack. The toughest lasted twenty-four hours. That was the limit. Hoffmann knew that from his own experience. At least it'd been within his power to give the Staff Officers a clean exit. But that was the least he could do. They'd shared a common goal, a common - what? Guilt? Hardly that, it wasn't treachery to try to save your own country from evil.

  He swept an eye over his bleak domain. He'd only been gone two days, but the air was already musty. He had to beat down sadness.

  18

  It was late. He switched on lights, unbuttoning his uniform tunic as he did so. Beyond the heavily-curtained windows Berlin, once a kaleidoscope of light, lay in darkness, hunched against another air-raid. And not only was the city dark, it was silent. No buses, no trams, no taxis, and, at night, no people. If you listened, you wouldn't even hear a telephone ring. This was a city on its deathbed, and the people on its streets in daylight walked like a people already defeated. The radio bulletins, with news of tactical retreats, victories in places no-one had ever heard of, and promises of ultimate victory based on such insanities as Persian oil, did nothing to change that.

  Everyone knew the Russians were closing in, and the daytime air-raids were increasingly frequent and audacious. The Luftwaffe was a spent force, and the enemy knew it.

  Hoffmann had called at the office on his way back and brought home with him a bundle of files. He put them on the coffee table, checked that the curtains were well drawn, switched on a reading-light over the armchair, and poured himself a brandy. Then he took the lid off a tobacco-jar which stood on the cabinet, and from it took a small twist of brown paper, one of many, and rubbed the white powder it contained onto his gums.

  He paced the room, thinking about the reports Schiffer and Kessler had presented him with. There'd be typed copies for the record on his desk by mid-morning, but there was no sense in them other than the observation of protocol, because, as he'd expected, they'd discovered nothing new. Most of the officers at the Wolf's Lair implicated in the coup had been arrested. One or two had shot themselves. One or two were on the run. Hoffmann would have to cobble the reports together into something flattering to Hitler's ego. Well, he'd done it before. Perhaps that was the only reason he'd been called in. Perhaps the Führer genuinely still trusted him. But in that case, why had he removed him from Berlin at such a crucial time? He couldn't be implicated in the coup; he'd only arrived at HQ after the tables had been turned.

  And the meeting with Hagen, difficult as it had been for Hoffmann to endure, had borne no fruit either, though Hoffmann found it profitable to discover that Schiffer and Hagen knew each other and made no secret of the fact. Hagen was what he had always been, a man who slipped through every net and climbed every ladder with ease. A moment would come when Hagen would jump off the Party train as it rushed to its destruction. Hagen was a survivor. But where would he run? Had he made plans, prepared his ground? Of course he had. And he'd been right about one thing: it had been one of Hitler's sadistic little whims to reunite two men between whom such hatred existed.

  He sat in the armchair and pulled the files towards him. The slim dossiers of those who had disappeared during the two days of his absence. Hoffmann drank some more brandy. How many of these people would he know? Each file contained no more than a couple of pages, prepared in a hurry, but each represented a life. Hoffmann had brought home fifty-two. All these people had been at their desks forty-eight hours ago. Now they were dead.

  The Gestapo had been busier than he'd expected. He worked methodically through the paperwork, the official reports replicating each other to such an extent that before long he was barely aware of any difference between the people who had been shot, strangled, found in the River Spree, who had fallen from high windows or rooftops, or who had 'committed suicide rather than face their crimes'. The majority of the files had their owner's deaths entered officially as 'natural causes' - fatal strokes and heart-attacks: cover-ups so well-known that their use was an open secret and even a joke. Many private citizens: a bar-owner, an archaeologist - who had been arrested because the Gestapo had confused his title with 'anarchist', as if he'd advertise such a thing - three doctors and five nurses from the Charité hospital, a bus-conductor, an undertaker. A number of civil servants and army officers too, as well as clerks to the General Staff and several secretaries.

  There was no pattern, nothing to link these people either to each other or the coup. It was simply a purge.

  He rose, lit a cigarette, poured himself another brandy, filling the glass. He took a long swallow and was refilling when the doorbell rang, once, briefly.

  He looked at his watch: half-past midnight. Putting down his glass, he crossed the tiny hall. He knew who it was.

  'Any company?' he asked immediately.

  'No.' Kessler sounded surprised.

  'Sure?'

  'Yes.'

  Hoffmann told himself that there was no reason why his subordinate should have been tailed. He was still a trusted senior official. No-one had bugged his apartment or his office. He was one of the men who authorised such things!

  'Come in.'

  Kessler took off his coat and bunched it on the rack.

  'What have you got?'

  The detective took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. 'Two things. Hagen first.'

  'Yes?'

  'What he was discussing with Schiffer.'

  'Yes?'

  Kessler opened his palms. 'It was to do with technical supplies to the camps in Poland.'

  'The labour camps, yes?' Hoffmann felt a familiar tightening of the stomach.

  'They're expecting a big new intake. Hungarian Jews. Mainly at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Hagen is organising a trainload of disinfectant for the showers, to be sent there from Hamburg. It's for delousing the new labourers. The firm that makes it is called Tesch and Stabenow. It's a kind of gas. Hagen has an interest and collects a fee from the State as well. Schiffer was bringing him his orders.'

  'I see.' Hoffmann knew all about the gas, and wished he didn't know what the news meant. How far away was the enemy? Could they not advance any faster? He looked at Kessler's face. Kessler was too intelligent not to know what was going on in Poland. 'And here?' he asked. 'What is happening here?'

  'That's the second thing. They're preparing another round-up,' Kessler replied. 'But they're cutting us out as far as they can. This is to be a Gestapo operation.'

  'How did you find out?'

  'My assistant, Sergeant Kleinschmidt.'

  'Trust him?'

  'I think so. They're going to co-opt some ordinary police, just constables, to flesh out the numbers. They've already started.'

  'Who are they after?'

  Kessler shrugged. 'Big fish.' He took two sheets of paper from his pocket. 'Here's the list. Not complete.'

  'Where did you get this?'

  'One of the secretaries in Müller's office works for us.'

  'And I didn't know?' said Hoffmann, angrily.

  'No-one wanted you to be compromised.'

  'You stuck your neck out. How did you find this secretary? Man or woman?'

  'Woman, sir. She was in our department before. Doesn't like it over there. Says you can hear them in the cells at night.'

  Hoffmann looked down the list. He closed his eyes. This was bad. 'Get yourself a drink,' he said.

  'Thank you.'

  'Everyone's on this list,' he said. 'How did they find out so fast?'

  'They took a lot of people down to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse for questioning. There's been a lot of singing.'

  Hoffmann looked at the list again. People would be using the purge to settle old scores. It always happened. Everyone would be terrified now. Everyone would be yelping to save their own skins. But there were plenty of names that counted.

  'There's a Co
mmission,' said Kessler.

  'I heard.'

  'No courts-martial. People's Court.'

  Hoffmann was silent. No-one was ever acquitted there. His thoughts turned back to Kiessel and Stawizki. Kiessel would gain a man's confidence, play father confessor. You always want to think the best of the guy who's got power over you, especially if his uniform's like yours, we're all on the same side, aren't we? And what a relief to talk to someone man-to-man, to unburden oneself, anything to get out of this room and back in the open air. And if they were stubborn, there was Stawizki. Hoffmann knew him, had had drinks with him, knew that his favourite dish was boeuf stroganoff, that he did a bit of market gardening, that he told jokes brilliantly. He'd visited him and his family - two boys, two girls - in their villa in Dahlem. But he was under no illusion about what Stawizki did. He had been obliged to attend one of his lectures. Stawizki had demonstrated the thimbles - his own invention - sheaths like miniature iron maidens that fitted over the fingertips and, when tightened, crushed them. There was a similar apparatus for the legs, and a metal hood for the head, which, when heated... Then there were the traditional methods, which Stawizki had refined: the rack fitted with wire, not rope, which was just thick enough not to sever the wrists and ankles.

  'Sometimes you only have to show the subject the equipment,' Stawizki had said, as the slides clicked on and off the screen. 'You don't have to use it. But you must always leave traces to show that it has been used. Sometimes you don't even have to do that. Just arrest the family, parents, children, especially little ones, spouse, and threaten them. Nothing to it.'

  Relatives. Emma.

  19

  'Are they going after relatives yet?' Hoffmann asked.

  'I don't know. They will, I think.' The two men exchanged a look, thinking the same thought.

  All means are justified when it is a question of national security, thought Hoffmann bitterly, remembering a note from one of his own lectures. And all that Himmler shit about bad blood running in families and having to be extirpated, so if the son is a criminal, the parents and the sister must also be judged and punished - hadn't he himself had to work along those lines?

  He had been thinking about his daughter since the coup had misfired. Would Emma remain safe where she was? She wasn't the least of his worries, but she was young enough to pick up the pieces if she survived. Hoffmann hadn't seen her for months, but her letters, one a fortnight, never failed. Still studying the violin and still wanting to play professionally; but a year or so ago a new note had crept into the letters, and her manner when he got out to Nikolassee to see her had become, if not distant, then at least reserved.

  He knew that doubts had formed in Emma's mind. She had grown up in a purely Nazi, purely Germanic world. She hadn't travelled, she had had to endure schools which taught hatred of Jews, mistrust of outsiders, and the essential superiority of her race. But she had kept her integrity. The aunt she lived with in Nikolassee, Ursula's sister, had seen to that, with the help of hidden books and music. A great risk, because children were encouraged to speak out if they suspected that anything didn't fit; but Emma from an early age had kept quiet.

  Would it be best to leave her where she was? To move her risked drawing attention to her, at a time when the best advice to anyone remotely near the centre of the web would be to keep one's head down, and pray. Was it worth taking that risk? If he arranged for her to go to the country, might that not just be viewed in the same way as other privileged departures were being viewed? Unofficially, behind the Führer's back, a lot of serious money was finding its way into Switzerland, and people with influence were beginning to look to the great expanses of South America as - so the joke went - the new Lebensraum. Hoffmann had no such ambition for his daughter, yet; but he was a prominent officer of the regime and would have no problem with travel permits. One of his own sub-departments issued them.

  It was far from certain that the Gestapo didn't already know where she was. The daughter of a high-ranking official, and close to Berlin; she'd be on the files somewhere.

  A decision had to be made now. There wasn't much time left, and there was no-one better able to help him than Kessler. Kessler had known Emma since he was twenty, and she was eleven. He knew where she was, one of the few who did, and the only policeman, and he had not betrayed that trust. He had to believe that what Kessler had said to him at Hitler's headquarters was the truth.

  Hoffmann refilled their glasses. 'I want you to do something for me.'

  'Yes?'

  'It's about Emma.'

  Kessler looked up.

  The problem was that sooner or later you had to trust someone. You had to take the risk, or you could do nothing at all. He knew how Kessler felt about Emma. He'd seen love grow between them over two years. Didn't some kind of future lie with them? Shouldn't he give that a chance? But was there a choice anyway? He would have to get away. He couldn't look after her any more. He knew the Gestapo would be on her track once he'd gone. He had to move her somewhere safer, out of Berlin.

  He should have prepared for this better. He should have organised an escape. To Sweden. To Switzerland. To Spain; and from one of those countries to the United States. But he hadn't. He'd resisted. He'd staked too much on the success of the coup, and he hadn't wanted to lose her. He'd dreamt of a time when they'd be able to play music together again, his amateur clarinet chasing after her agile violin. He knew now what a selfish and sentimental vision that had been. He'd left this decision late. His last hope was Kessler. But he was trading on emotions. Risky.

  'What do you want me to do?'

  It was still hard to take the step. 'I may have to go away soon. I need to be sure that Emma will be in good hands.'

  Did Kessler really love his daughter? Love her enough?

  'What do you want me to do?' said Kessler again.

  20

  Hoffmann looked at one of the landscapes, one by Aelbert Cuyp, on the wall. A field with two cows near a gate, a city by the sea in the background. Ships leaving. How he envied their passengers.

  'I think I can trust you.'

  Kessler couldn't be deep-cover Gestapo, he told himself again. No-one could be that clever. No-one could get that far past his defences. Surely. He'd protected Kessler from what at the very least would have been a dead-end career, given his father's background and his own refusal to join the Party.

  Hoffmann was aware of the depth of Kessler's devotion to him. But he was unaware that Kessler knew all about him. Kessler knew his most carefully-hidden secret, since Emma had told him, and Kessler was good at asking questions in the right kind of way. Hoffmann was a good policeman; but he was a good trainer too. He'd taught Kessler and many others, but Kessler had been the best. Hoffmann had been too busy to realise that a time would come when the chicks would be able to teach the hen.

  'I'm worried about Emma,' he said stiffly, for this was hard for him. 'Many people who have nothing to do with the conspiracy are going to be sent to the camps or killed. I want you to make sure she's safe.'

  'Whatever it takes, I'll do that,' Kessler said. He hesitated, and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

  'What is it?'

  'It may not be important, but there's something else you must know. There's a rumour that Hagen's disappeared.'

  21

  Kessler had not stayed long. After he'd gone, Hoffmann looked through the files, but finally given in to sleep. When he awoke, he drew the curtains and opened the window. It was still night. Rain was falling and the streets were slick, but the air was clearer than it had been and Hoffmann breathed it in gratefully. He had slept more than an hour, deeply and without dreams, waking to find himself better rested than he'd hoped. He washed in cold water, shaved, and changed into uniform again, since a day of official meetings lay before him. By the time he had drunk two small cups of his precious coffee, he felt ready to face the next round.

  He was filling his briefcase with dossiers when he heard a gentle tapping on the door. An unexpected
visitor, this time. Things were moving fast.

  Hoffmann knew that the Gestapo would not knock like that. They would jam their fingers on the doorbell, they would hammer; and above all, they would have turned up earlier, between two and three in the morning, when people are at their most disorientated and vulnerable.

  The rapping came again, quiet, but urgent. Now he recognised a pattern: two - three - two. Hastily, he went to the door.

  Brandau pushed past him into the living room. Hoffmann could smell tobacco, alcohol and sweat. Brandau usually smelled of nothing but cologne, and his tie-knot was always perfectly centred in its snow-white collar. But he wasn't drunk, not in the least: his eyes were clear.

  Hoffmann followed the lawyer. Brandau sat briefly on one of the dining chairs but, unable to rest, stood up again and paced the room.

  'What's happened?'

  'It's over.'

  Hoffmann was ready for it. He hardly dared to think that he had got away with it for so long. If he felt anything immediately, it was relief. But his mind was racing. It had to be betrayal; he'd covered his tracks too well for anything else.

  'Have you any idea how much time we have?'

  Brandau poured himself a brandy. 'It'll take a while for the paperwork to go through. I misrouted it to Department Six. It'll take time to send it back from Overseas Investigations to Department Four.' He sketched a smile. 'It's just as well that our beloved State Security uses Roman numerals for its departments.'

  'How long does that give us?'

  'Four or five hours?'

  'Good.' Hoffmann took a book from the shelves, Hölderlin's Collected Poems, and leafed through it hastily.