Into Darkness

by Anton Gill

  His companion unbuttoned the flap, raised it and looked out. The passengers craned to get a glimpse of a grey road winding behind them through a nondescript landscape of spindly trees and low brick buildings. The outskirts of the town?

  Some way behind them, the second lorry strained along. No sign of the bikes. Two would be ahead of the first truck, the other two behind the second.

  The thin man said aloud: 'Will you allow us to talk?'

  'Strictly forbidden,' said the guard. He was about eighteen.

  'You can hear every word we say. Do you know where we're going?'

  'Classified.'

  Probably the only people who did know were the drivers and the officers in the cabs.

  'Talk if you must. But keep it down,' said the other soldier, the same age as the first, less scared.

  'Heini - ' protested the first.

  'What the fuck. Where do they think they're going? Fucking home?'

  Those casual words sent a cold bolt through the other passengers. Only the man on Emma's right, a man about her father's age in the uniform of a regular army general, did not stiffen at them. Emma noticed that nothing had been stripped from the uniform, none of the insignia at all.

  The general's face was distantly familiar, but he had one of those faces that seemed to hide behind, or go with, such a uniform: tanned skin, grey eyes, grey hair, still a strong jawline for a man of maybe fifty. He sat in the same attitude as the soldiers, bent forward, arms on knees. Emma noticed that the soldiers cast the occasional anxious glance at him, and they did not object when he himself lit up.

  'They're not going to kill us,' he said, looking at her with tired kindness.

  'How do you know?'

  'Why move us? Petrol's scarce. It wouldn't make any sense at all.'

  'They might want to keep it quiet.'

  He laughed drily. 'Listen: I've spent the last five years protecting this lot. I was recalled to Berlin not even a fortnight ago and they arrested me there. I'm lucky. I hardly know what Dachau's like. But I've learned some things since I've been an inmate. People they execute, they send the family a bill for the bullets. They're good little economists. They're not going to waste petrol on people they're going to kill. And there's another thing.'

  'What's that?'

  'Do you notice any Jews among us?'

  Emma was silent.

  112

  Remembering himself, the general dug into his pocket and took out his cigarette tin, which he opened. In it were five rolled cigarettes.

  'I'm sorry. Would you care for...?'

  'No, thank you.' Emma was dying for one, but realised how much more he needed them, and sensed the background reluctance, well concealed though it was, in his polite gesture. What's bred in the bone...

  He put the tin back.

  The rode on in silence. The General smoked quietly, husbanding his cigarette, the roll-up which sat oddly with the uniform. Though scarcely immaculate, it still carried a tarnished dignity. It looked as if he had just returned in it from battle.

  Despite the guards' absolution, few people spoke. Occasionally someone asked the thin man if they'd changed direction, but that must have been merely for the sake of saying something, because for two hours the route remained steady and unvarying. One or two people began to squirm or look embarrassed, and the thin man, who'd been in prison since his guards were children, who was himself a man of sixty, called over to them: 'I think we need to stop.'

  One of the guards stumbled between the rows of legs forwards towards the pane of glass separating the cab from the body of the truck, and rapped on it. A few moments later, the convoy drew to a halt.

  'Men to the left, women to the right,' ordered the guards, climbing out and unslinging their rifles. One covered the men, the other, the women.

  'No-one goes out of sight!'

  They were well out of any town now, they'd stopped in a sun-dappled valley. Green meadows sloped up and away from them. Below the road, which curved along the left side of the dale, a slender river wound, glistening like mercury in the sun. A few trees - beeches - dotted around, provided a bit of shelter. One middle-aged woman sought it.

  'Not behind the fucking trees!' shouted one of the motorcyclists at her, 'Where we can fucking see you!'

  She hastened back into the open, and squatted awkwardly on the sloping hill.

  The thin man didn't need to piss. He stood instead and drank in the view. It had, after all, been eleven years since he had seen anything but grey walls and death.

  Squatting, Emma worried about her violin. It was still in the lorry.

  The passengers found their places again, and a cautious bonhomie crept in as they set off. It was good to be out of Dachau, whatever might happen next. The guards produced a bottle of Himbeergeist, offering it to those nearest them, and a bag of boiled sweets, which were passed round. For half an hour, everyone talked more freely. Then the deadening unrelieved motion of the lorry took over, people became subdued, and finally there was silence.

  Emma was relieved that her violin had not disappeared in her absence. No-one had lost anything, in fact. She was young, she had already adapted to her new situation, and she would, she hoped, survive it. Her father, her lover, her friends, even her beloved aunt, had become remote, like people in a dream - how quickly that seemed to have happened.

  The rhythm of the lorry's motion made her doze. She dreamt. She was in a field, playing the clarinet to an audience of white geese. There was a long low building at the edge of the field but she could not see what was going on there. Her half-brother was there too. Odd, because she hadn't seen him for two years and he had almost disappeared from her thoughts.

  Something sharp was pushing into her cheek. She had let her head fall onto the shoulder of her neighbour. It was the corner of an epaulette pushing against her face that had awakened her.

  The general's eyes were closed. Emma had no idea what time of day it was, or of how long she had slept. Was it late afternoon? Surely not. She was hungry.

  He woke as she moved. He noticed the red skin on her cheek. He touched it.

  'Uniforms make bad pillows.'

  'I'm sorry. I fell asleep.'

  'So did I. And look around you.'

  Most of the passengers were asleep, including the guards - their heads were nodding, lips jutting. They looked much younger, even, than they were.

  'Where are we going?'

  'I have no idea. But I think we'll be safe.'

  'How do you know?'

  'It's logical. We are Himmler's bargaining chips. Think. A mother rat in a sewer moves her young to a safer nest when the water starts to rise. That's what he's doing with us.'

  'When is this going to end?'

  'In the Spring. In the Autumn, next year, at the latest.'

  'How do you know?' she said again.

  He shrugged, and smiled faintly. 'I'm a general. I know what an army's limits are. The Americans are fresh and well-fed, and they have new and limitless supplies. It was a mistake to assume that, for all their posturing, they would leave England in the lurch. As for the Russians, we have made them suffer so terribly that they will be merciless to us, and they have oil. Our leader made the same mistake that Napoleon made. It's only a matter of time now.'

  'And what about us?'

  'With luck, we'll ride out the storm. The fools who've destroyed Germany and mortgaged its honour will be replaced - no doubt by other fools, but the next bunch will at least, one hopes, not be criminally insane. How long have you – ?'

  'About the same as you. I was in hiding. I was warned that I should leave Berlin but I took my time. I didn't realise they could move so fast.'

  'The Gestapo? Nor did I.'

  'What did you – ?'

  The general glanced in the direction of the guards. 'It doesn't matter now. There was... an idea... some of us had... ' he hesitated. 'We thought we might be able to get rid of him. But we made a balls of it. I was down near the Swiss frontier. They recalled me to Berlin.
As soon as I arrived, I was arrested. I thought it'd be a firing squad instanter. But here I am.' He paused, took out his tin of cigarettes.

  'Go on. Have one.'

  'Really?'

  'Really.'

  Gratefully, she took one.

  'What are you in for?' He smiled again.

  'I don't know... ' It was the girl's turn to hesitate. 'My father... he was in the police... I think he may have been involved in the same business as you.'

  'Where is he now?'

  'I don't know.'

  'What's his name?'

  She wondered whether she should tell him, but she told herself that of all possible plants - and spies were scattered among the prisoner population, she had been warned - he was the least likely to be one. She also had a vague memory of having met him, somewhere, before. Or maybe it was just because he looked a bit like her dad.

  'My name's Emma Hoffmann,' she said.

  He sat up. 'Max's daughter?'

  'Yes. Who are you?'

  'My name's Richter.'

  'You know my dad?'

  'Well... ' he paused and she knew exactly what he was thinking. One learned fast in the camps. 'Yes. Only in passing. I came to dinner at your house once. It must have been in - when? - 1930?'

  'I was six then. Later, I didn't live with my father. I didn't know what he was doing. Did you?'

  'No. We kept apart as far as possible. In case anyone was taken.'

  'Have you seen him since?'

  113

  Klaus Richter hesitated again. What harm could it do to tell her, even if she were a spy - which he could scarcely believe - but, he reflected, if he told her he'd met Hoffmann on the road and let him go, and she reported it, his own neck would be on the block. Hating himself, at the same time he decided it was better to be safe than sorry.

  'No,' he said. 'I haven't seen him in years.'

  She cast her eyes down in disappointment. 'I'm going to nip this cigarette out if you don't mind. Keep the rest for later.'

  'I remember you played the violin for us. That one?'

  'No. How embarrassing. Did my parents make me? I've only had this one since I was thirteen.'

  'How old are you now?'

  'Twenty.'

  His face sank into sadness. 'I hope you make it.'

  'I hope we all make it.'

  'Listen,' he said.

  'Yes?'

  'When they arrested you –'

  'Yes?'

  'Did they harm you?'

  She looked into herself, her eyes darkened. 'They showed me things, gadgets, I don't know, simple things, tools, pliers, a hacksaw, and a candle with barbed wire embedded in the wax - but they didn't use them. They interrogated me. They asked me if I knew where he was. That's all. They brought me to Dachau on a train.'

  The general was silent.

  'If they'd used any of those things I would have told them anything. But they only asked if I knew where he was. They didn't ask anything about – ' She stopped herself.

  'What?'

  'Anything else,' she said. 'Not that there was anything else I could have told them. Did they torture you?'

  He smiled. 'They knew all about me. I'd been denounced in Berlin. God knows how I was lucky enough to escape the gallows. Thank you, Papa Himmler!'

  Perhaps she was all right. Perhaps he would tell her he'd seen Max. But not yet.

  They were climbing a long hill. It was mid-afternoon. They'd stopped once on the journey apart from the pit-stop, and the guards had given each of the passengers a cup of water. But no food. No food for anyone. Now the trucks came to a halt. The passengers could hear the motorbikes rev before switching off. The engines of the lorries died too. There was silence for a moment, and a kind of peace. No movement any more. The passengers could feel the sun through the canvas.

  The guards opened the flaps, lowered the tailgate and jumped down, one standing on each side of the back of each truck to marshal the prisoners off. They found themselves in a huge gravelled yard. They were drawn into ranks. A little above them still, on the crest of the hill they'd been climbing, loomed a fortress.

  The two officers stood before them. 'Welcome to Schloß Kupferstein,' one of them said. 'Your new home.'

  114

  As the trucks that took Emma Hoffmann and General Klaus Richter from Dachau to Kupferstein left town that morning for the north, the train their passengers heard passing them was heading for Munich. It was a night train from Berlin, badly-timed, ahead of schedule, and it drew to a halt in front of the buffers at the Hauptbahnhof at a quarter to five in the morning. People unglued themselves from sleep and left the fug of their compartments unwillingly for the gritty morning air and the coal-and-oil smell of the station.

  The black locomotive let off steam with a sharp hissing wail, which made a little boy in the crowd jump, which in turn made one of the passengers, a man with a lizard-like face, laugh. He must have been strong, for he was managing two large black cases, and refused any help from a porter.

  'Oh, fuck,' gasped Veit Adamov, finally dumping the cases in the station bar and ordering a slivovitz and an ersatz coffee. But he was grinning once he'd drunk them both, and looked around.

  'So far, so good,' he said to himself. Leipzig-Berlin-Munich. All by train. More or less on time. He deserved another drink.

  He knew where to go. And though he was early, they had a car waiting for him.

  'Ulli!' he said to the bulky man in the pearl grey suit and matching borsalino who stood in the middle of the station's main entrance. 'Got a cigarette?'

  The man grinned. 'Genuine Lucky Strikes,' he said. 'Let's get this shit in the car.'

  They drove through the battered city until they reached a restaurant with its blinds down. They unloaded the cases and went past what looked like abandoned chairs and tables to a spacious room at the back, which contained a number of packing cases. Metal shelving along the walls were stacked with film canisters.

  'Are you sure this is safe?' asked Adamov, shoving the larger and heavier of the two cases into a gap Ulli indicated on the shelving.

  'No-one else knows this is here. The restaurant's been closed for six months now. I'm the caretaker. Perfectly legit.'

  'Hmmn.' Adamov was doubtful. Some of the best fruits of his labours over the past ten years - Red Riding Hood, Beauty and the Beast, The Robber Bridegroom, Aschputtel - and what he hoped would be the foundation of his fortune in the new life he planned for himself, were contained in that case.

  'Don't worry. None of the others knows about this place.'

  'Well, I won't be here long. Thanks, Ulli.'

  'No problem - we owe you. The other boys are looking forward to seeing you too. Big George says we're to look after you - anything you want.'

  'How are things here?'

  Ulli was uncorking a bottle. 'Here we are - real Fürst Bismarck. Better than the southern crap they give you here.' He poured two large glasses. 'Mind you, it's not cold. Cheers!'

  'Cheers.' Adamov was still tense.

  'Big George is sitting it out. No big stuff, just a little snow, a few girls. Only thing to do is keep your head down til the Yanks come. Be rich pickings then.'

  'What about the competition?'

  'Plenty for everyone!'

  'You sure the Ammis'll reach Munich before the Russians?'

  'May I never get any more cunt if they don't.' Ulli refilled their glasses.

  'So who else is here?' asked Veit, drinking. He hadn't eaten since the previous evening and the coffee, the slivovitz, and now this schnapps were making him light-headed. The Luckies didn't help, either. But he felt good, too, relieved, refreshed. He was on his way. Old friends had stayed loyal. Nothing would stop him now. Why was he still nervous, then? Why did he need to cushion himself with drink? He knew how dangerous that was; but with every fresh shot he felt more comfortable.

  'The Monbijous are here,' said Ulli, pouring another. 'What's left of them. Our lot, of course, and the Fat Boys from Köpenick, and the Schlemme
r Gang. Most of the others are in Frankfurt, the ones we know of.'

  'And?'

  'Like I said, we're all keeping our heads down. Except the Fat Boys, of course. They're still in with the regime. They the only ones who think it's got a future.'

  'Should I be worried?'

  'Nah.' Ulli got up. 'Come on, Toller and Herzfeld want to buy you a drink.'

  'One for the road?'

  'Why not? That fucking heap drives itself.'

  'Doesn't anyone stop you? Wonder where you get the petrol from?'

  Ulli gave him a sad look. 'I've got a sticker. Auxiliary ambulance. What you got in that case? Your masterpieces?'

  'Nah,' said Adamov. 'Army information films. Sixteen-mill. stuff. You know.' He knew he'd drunk too much, too fast. He was already fuddled, but not enough for a sense of possible threat not to have lodged in his mind. He picked up the other case, the one with his clothes and the three best films in it. 'Where am I staying?'

  'Nice little hotel. We can lay on some tottie, too, if you want.'

  As Ulli drew away from the kerb, two hundred kilometres north-west, a black car drew up outside the bakery in Iphofen. Three or four passers-by looked surprised as three men got out and rapidly entered the shop, but then lowered their heads and went on their way, quickening their pace as they did so.

  Schiffer had made good time from Nuremberg. He'd thought he'd lost the trail and his own contact hadn't been in touch for days, but now at last there was a clear lead and the local cops had confirmed it. He was in no mood to trifle with anyone and he'd brought two Gestapo men from Nuremberg with him to emphasise just how serious he was. Before he left, he'd made one phone call. Now he was confident. Now he was on track again. He wouldn't risk repining any more. He was a man of iron.

  As soon as they were inside, one of the men drew the blinds. Schiffer grabbed the woman by the arm and dragged her into the centre of the floor before she had time to react to their presence. He let her go and immediately hit her, a close-fisted blow to the side of the head as near as he could get to her left eye and cheekbone. He hurt his hand, and cursed, but he'd knocked her to the floor, where one of the other men kicked her, not too hard, in the kidneys. Then they pulled her to her feet and put her on a chair.