Into Darkness

by Anton Gill

  'When I was a boy...

  ...a god would rescue me

  From the yells and blows of me…'

  The photograph fell to the floor. He rescued it, glancing swiftly across at Brandau. He looked hard at the picture, then made his way to the kitchen, where he took out his lighter and set fire to it, crushing it into a bowl, and afterwards washing the black ashes down the sink.

  'You shouldn't have kept that anyway,' said Brandau, not without sympathy.

  'Gone now.'

  'Last trace?'

  'Last. Of all of them.'

  'Photographs aren't people. Anyway, they're a luxury. Who has photos? '

  'How else can you hold their faces in your mind when they are dead?'

  'He isn't dead.'

  Hoffmann said, 'I hear Hagen's buggered off.'

  Brandau did not seem surprised. 'Where?'

  Hoffman shrugged, but Brandau read the anxiety in his face, and read his thoughts. 'In his shoes, I'd be heading for Rio, not Bamberg,' he said.

  'Not if he thinks he got unfinished business.'

  Brandau paused briefly. 'And Emma?'

  Hoffmann glanced at him. 'She'll be all right.'

  'Got someone to look after her?'

  'I think so.'

  Hoffmann moved around his flat, gathering what he needed quickly and without hesitation, and packing it all into a small leather bag secured with two leather straps. This was a moment they'd imagined for a long time. The next step was to get back to the Werderscher Markt and pick up the car.

  There were other things that they'd had to leave to chance - a motorbike patrol passing at the wrong moment, a phone lifted at the wrong moment - but, failing that, they knew what to do.

  Hoffmann went to the bedroom and collected the little automatic from the table.

  'How did they get to us?' Returning, he was buttoning his tunic, checking quickly round the flat. He scooped the contents of the tobacco-jar into his pockets, and swung his coat over his shoulders.

  'They arrested our Communications Officer. He'd only been given all the names at the last minute, but they were all the key names. Obviously he had to have them; but he was a weak link, a bad mistake, young, only a captain, nice apartment, dependants, wife and five kids, one more coming, wife had got the Mother's Cross for breeding, everything to live for. They turned him over to Stawizki, who gave him a couple of turns on the rack, just enough to let him know how easy it'd be to separate his gut from his prick, and he caved in.' Brandau went to the window. 'They killed him anyway of course. And they've arrested the family.'

  Hoffmann picked up his case, took a look round the apartment. He'd have to abandon the bundle of case-files he'd brought from the office. Not that that mattered. Nothing could help the people they concerned now, anyway.

  'Come on,' he said.

  22

  The sky was overcast, you'd have thought it was autumn, and the silence was almost complete. They walked fast to Unter den Linden and turned east, making their way towards the Police Praesidium. There was no-one about, but guards, dulled by boredom and fatigue outside government buildings, pulled themselves to attention as they passed, seeing the tall man in the black uniform and the smaller man in the suit, who, they could smell, was Gestapo.

  The road shone after the rain. A car hissed past them going westwards towards Pariser Platz. It glistened. Against the sky ruined buildings rose like dead trees.

  'What about you?' asked Brandau.

  Hoffmann looked at him.

  'Where will you go?'

  'Nothing fixed.'

  'Why not come with me?' Brandau said.

  'What would I do when we got to the frontier? Share your papers?'

  'We could arrange things, once we're in the south.' Brandau spoke more softly. 'There are agents in place already.'

  'Of course there are,' said Hoffmann. 'Even the Gestapo admits that. In Lörrach, in Freiburg. Two English, three American - ' He broke off, looked into the other man's eyes. 'You know why I can't go,' he said.

  'Of course,' said Brandau. 'But look after yourself.'

  It was too late, Hoffmann thought as they walked on in silence. No-one could oppose Hitler now. It was over; it wouldn't be Germans now who brought the Third Reich down. Perhaps it had always been too late. One thing was certain: the country would have to accept whatever shit was handed it when defeat came.

  He looked at Brandau, who had rebuttoned his collar and adjusted his tie. The shirt was not as clean as the lawyer might have wished, but he'd managed somehow to regain his poise.

  He was the one who really had to get out. The Americans in Bern trusted him, and believed his story.

  How long had Hans been running errands to them from Himmler now? A year? Hoffmann thought of the bullying little head of the SS, a self-important jack-in-office invested with pseudo-mystical leanings and a sadistic streak. All that Nordic shit. It was a pantomime, little pricks dressed up in their minds like Odin and Thor. What masters they had served!

  But not stupid. Himmler had seen the end coming long before the others, a good year ago, and sent feelers out to the enemy secret service almost immediately. Brandau had told Hoffmann the plan: Himmler would succeed Hitler - who was mad anyway, everyone knew that - negotiate a peace, save his skin, and sweep all the horror under the carpet. He'd even fatten up the people in the Camps, give them decent clothes, and then, but not until then, hand them over.

  What Himmler hadn't known was that his go-between was offering secrets to the Yanks on his own account. Brandau, used to double-work by now, was putting it to good use to ensure his own future. And so far, so good. There were papers waiting for him at the frontier town of Lörrach. They'd get him over the border to Basel. From there all he had to do was ring Bern, and they'd come and fetch him.

  He envied the lawyer. He was the clever one. He had no family. Lived alone in a smart apartment on the Königstrasse. Saw a classy whore - Helga - in a five-star joyhouse opposite the Hotel Esplanade on the rare occasions when the need took him. Only shared her with two other clients, both Brigadeführers. Had a tight circle of close friends, none of whom knew anything about him.

  Thinking of Brandau's whore brought to Hoffmann's mind one of his own close friends - if friend was the right word. That old crook Veit Adamov, whom Hoffmann had got to know when he was on political surveillance, tracking communist agitators. Veit had changed his spots and survived the new regime by making pornographic films for the SS middle ranks.

  They were good films with proper narratives, some of them based on the more earthy folk-tales collected by the Brothers Grimm, which was just like Veit, and not a bad idea at all, plenty of scope there for all sorts of diversion, you could even throw in torture and death; and he cast genuinely attractive stars. Veit enjoyed powerful protection, some said from Göring himself, and made his films right under the Führer's nose. Gone the Marxist documentaries he'd made in the Weimar days, when you could actually say something, even if nobody did anything.

  When the change came, the famous Seizing of Power, Veit the Survivor took over from Veit the Idealist. Russia didn't appeal, so he hid his Marxism under his cloak, and protected himself by providing the men who sat around the conference tables and restaurants in Berlin, sending blood-soaked orders to the men operating on the bleak wooded plains of Poland, with just the distraction they needed. Escape. Drink and porn. But had Adamov got out? They'd lost touch in recent years and Hoffmann couldn't be sure that the man hadn't sold out completely. He couldn't quite believe that he would, but he knew Adamov would do almost anything to ensure that his own neck remained unbroken. Pity, he could have done with someone that resourceful now.

  But now, Brandau was Hoffmann's only hope. Even if Hoffmann did get out, after his work was finished, he couldn't prove to anyone outside that he'd been anything other than a loyal servant of the Party. Only if they'd succeeded in killing the Führer would they have been able to drop the disguises they'd worn so long; but they had failed. Hoffmann ha
d led seven investigations into attempts on the Führer's life. He'd fudged them, but he'd always been a passable actor. The Gestapo had been taken in. But why should the Allies believe him? And even if the truth came out, it would still look to the enemy as if he and the others had just been trying to hedge their bets, once they knew the jig was up.

  There wasn't much to be proud of. But there was still just enough time left to create some good out of it. Some form of redemption. Until he had at least tried to achieve that, Hoffmann would not take either the cognac-and-bullet route, or try to save his skin.

  A block from Werderscher Markt, on a quiet corner, they parted company.

  'I'll pick you up by the river. Be ready.'

  'I know where. And if you don't show?'

  'Then that's it. I don't doubt you have a backup arrangement.'

  Brandau almost smiled. 'How long?'

  'Twenty minutes.'

  23

  Hoffmann walked through the courtyard of the Police Praesidium and climbed the familiar main staircase to the first floor. There were hordes of staff about already, more than usual, quickening their pace when they saw Hoffmann striding past. Christ, thought Hoffmann, Brandau had better be right about that misdirected report. He'd expected more warning than this.

  He reached his office, where he dismissed the night-secretary immediately. On leaving, the secretary reported that Gruppenführer Müller had authorisation to requisition whatever Kriminalpolizei resources he needed. It was hardly surprising.

  He unlocked his desk and, from the back of a drawer, took two cyanide phials. He checked the contents of the desk, and arranged a little disorder in the papers. Just to keep the bastards busy later on. There were few personal addresses. Those there were, he placed in the big ashtray and set fire to them.

  Finished with his desk, he moved to the filing cabinets, and did the same thing there, creating disorder, and destroying the handful which he thought remotely likely to incriminate others. Then he pummelled the ashes to dust and threw them into the stove in the corner which was used for heating the office in winter.

  He picked up the telephone. He looked up at the huge city map which dominated one wall. The switchboards would be incredibly busy. It was unlikely that calls would be monitored at a time like this. Crime never sleeps, and this was a golden opportunity. Who's going to worry about crooks when everyone's chasing traitors? No-one's going to trace calls from the poor old Crime Squad now. Or so he reasoned. Time should be on his side for another few hours. At least until mid-morning.

  As he looked at the map he thought of the old days, when things had been simpler, just matters of murder and drugs to deal with. All the old gangs had gone to Frankfurt or Munich now, anywhere away from the east, because they'd known for months that the Americans would get Munich and the Russians would get Berlin.

  Point is, calling from here is safe, and as far as people here are concerned, I'm still the boss.

  He thought of Hagen, too, but there were more immediate things to concern him. There would be a car at his disposal. There was one standing by for him twenty-four hours a day. He often drove himself, a habit he'd established years ago in anticipation of just such a moment as this.

  He placed his call and now the phone was ringing.

  'Pick up,' he said to himself, looking at his watch.

  Then he heard Tilli Cassirer answer, sleepy, irritable and defensive, until she heard his voice.

  'Fais très attention au champagne,' said Hoffmann. 'Ça éclate ici. Je te joins dès que possible pour m'en charger.'

  He listened to her voice for a moment, then hung up.

  He went to get the car.

  24

  Though they'd changed details in the plan with changing circumstances, essentially it remained the same as it had always been. There'd been some question about whether or not to leave Berlin together, but together they would, in case of need, make an impressive-looking team, which would doubly secure their passage. On the road, away from Berlin, they should be able to pass themselves off as two Nazi officials sharing the burden of an onerous investigation, and their cover was aided by Brandau's independence of Müller's direct control. The police arm of the Gestapo didn't quite control the Legislature, and in any case later, by the end of that day, the day of their escape, when the truth would be out, it wouldn't matter anymore.

  The Mercedes at their disposal was a hard-topped grey 770 with, as the garage sergeant proudly pointed out, a full tank. The sergeant was a small, oil-stained man who smelled of axle-grease and pipe tobacco. He looked like a miner. He could have been anything between forty and sixty. Hoffmann had known him over a decade, during which time he had not changed one iota. He was unaffectedly unctuous, and hoped to run a coach company once the war was over. He dreamt of taking tours to Scotland.

  'Where's my usual car?' asked Hoffmann.

  'Service,' said the sergeant apologetically. 'We did send a message.'

  'Very well,' snapped Hoffmann.

  'You'll find this one as good,' continued the sergeant. 'It's new.'

  'Run in?' This was a stroke of luck. A new car, not his usual one. He hadn't banked on that.

  'Of course. No snags. Don't worry, sir. It won't let you down.'

  'Good.' And just that little bit harder to trace back to him, if he knew how the paperwork went.

  'Be needing it long?' the sergeant asked as he filled in forms in his greenhouse-like office in the underground parking lot.

  'Can't say.' Hoffmann signed four times, took the keys, and crossed the concrete to the car. It still smelt of leather. Hoffmann put gloves on, turned the key, pressed the ignition, and the big engine rumbled into life. He drove out of the garage and headed south, taking the road alongside the Kupfergraben to the point where it turns east to rejoin the Spree. There, under an old elm tree, he drew up, and looked around. Brandau was sitting beside him within ten seconds.

  He smiled. 'Nice car. Congratulations.'

  'Enjoy it while you can.'

  'When this is over, I'm never leaving a book-lined study again, ever.'

  'See anyone?'

  'No.'

  Hoffmann reached into his pocket and proffered one of the cyanide capsules.

  'Do you really think I haven't got my own?' said Brandau, 'Kind of you, of course, but do save what you have for yourself.' He lit a cigarette and gazed at the dreary street they were passing.

  'One should be enough,' said Hoffmann.

  'It never hurts to be sure,' said Brandau, 'As my governess used to say.'

  They drove over the Spittelmarkt and down Seydelstrasse, along Kottbusdamm and through the battered suburb of Neukölln. In all that distance they encountered only a handful of other vehicles, two small black cars, almost certainly Gestapo, a police motorcycle-and-sidecar, and an empty troop-carrier whose half-tracks clattered deafeningly on the cobbles as it roared past them.

  They were beyond the outskirts of Berlin when they heard the sirens. The bombers had come. A dawn raid.

  'That'll help us,' said Brandau. Hoffmann looked at him, and wondered if his own face was as grey as his colleague's.

  They couldn't hear the distant hum of the Lancasters, or whatever the fuck they were this time, over the sound of the car's engine. But they could hear the crump of the bombs as they hit.

  Hoffmann drove on, across the flat plain. The city stayed in view. He could see flames flare as he watched in the mirror.

  They reached the edge of the marshes. He pulled over.

  'What are you doing?'

  'Want to see what's happening. A minute, no more.'

  Even at that distance they could see the city burning in the gathering light. The flames devoured the sky. Hoffmann could almost think he could see individual tongues of orange, yellow and red, dancing among the carcasses of the buildings that together had once been home.

  This was a big raid. The bombers hung black in the sky like insects, moving in slow motion. There was little to resist them. A few anti-aircraft un
its had opened fire, and tinier specks, Messerschmitt 110s, dived and weaved among the bombers, but there were only three of them. When two had been shot down, the third wheeled away.

  'We must go,' said Hoffmann.

  Brandau got back into the passenger seat. Hoffmann paused a moment to rub the contents of one of his brown twists of paper onto his gums, then got in without another look back.

  Behind them the city burned. The Opera, the Bode Museum, the Palace, the Cathedral, all were hit, and with them the tinderbox districts of the poor, the shops and the hotels of the Ku'damm, the newspaper offices, the cinemas, the schools, the zoo.

  Near the Tiergarten, Hoffmann knew, there were stables. He remembered fighting in the trenches in the last war, and the horses which had been hit by incendiary bombs, escaping, their manes on fire, galloping and stumbling, screaming across the broken land, unable to escape the death they carried on their backs. He wrenched his mind back to the present.

  Further down the road there was a setback, an unforeseen obstacle: a tree fallen across their path meant a detour.

  They drove on through a ghost landscape, finally taking a road which led through lakeland. Away to the left a ragged line of woods was roughly etched on the horizon. Ahead of them and to the right, a grey plain punctuated by clumps of stubborn coppice and reeds crouched under a sky which might have belonged to a gloomy mezzotint.

  Hoffmann pushed the heavy car on, cursing when it skidded on the wet road, fearful of sleep, of losing concentration, for the lakes came close to the edge of the tarmac. Hoffmann had planned this route weeks ago, covering the territory, insuring himself, but this road hadn't figured in his plans. They weren't running late, but before too many people were up they needed to reach the deep lake surrounded by dense woodland which he had selected.

  Country people usually rose early. Now, peering through the dismal half-light, he wasn't sure he hadn't lost his way. But the air-raid had helped them. They had seen no country patrols; they all had their heads down. The enemy was known to dump unused bombs randomly on the countryside before turning for home. That knowledge might keep the farmers indoors longer too. And if the worst came to the worst the big official car and his uniform would impress a local police unit. The worst part of the journey for unwanted encounters had been the Autobahn just south of the city, and that had been empty. Perhaps their luck would hold. He concentrated on the road, but there were some thoughts he couldn't keep back.