Into Darkness

by Anton Gill

  Kessler blocked him. 'Hanno, isn't it?'

  'What?'

  'Hanno Heyme?' Kessler made the name up, not even that, fixing instead on the first name that'd come into his mind, the name of an uncle of his who'd always given him ten marks at Christmas, wrapped in red tissue, when he was a boy. He used to find it hanging on the tree on Christmas Eve. One of his best presents. He always left it until after dinner to open, opulent as it was in its red wrapper against the deep green boughs. During the inflation, he remembered the ten marks becoming ten thousand, ten million, but his family had weathered it somehow, luckily, and so had Uncle Hanno.

  No need to embarrass this little crook by using his real name in public.

  'You've made a mistake,' said the man.

  'But I'm sure you must remember - back in the old days, you and me and Maxie Hoffmann?'

  'Fuck off, mate.'

  Kessler checked him. One or two heads had turned, mildly interested. The man relaxed slightly. 'Look,' said Kessler. 'If you're going to get through this and stay in business afterwards, it mightn't be a bad bit of insurance to help me now.'

  'Think I'm staying?'

  'Have a drink at least. You know who I am. Your memory can't be that bad. And I remember you well. All about you.' Kessler didn't add that he knew the man was Jewish.

  'All right.' The man subsided. 'Call me sentimental, but we're not far off from kicking these shits in the pants, and I'm not scared anymore.' He looked Kessler in the eye. 'And in case you're thinking it, no, I don't have any family in the camps.'

  Kessler lowered his eyes. 'I only want to know if anyone knows where Hoffmann is.'

  'Last I heard of him was in Berlin, he wanted to buy steamer tickets for New York. I arranged them. He didn't take them. His girl was killed. Years ago. After the war, if we meet again, he'll get his money back, full whack. Least I can do.' The man looked at Kessler. 'We know what he tried to do. He fucked up, but he did his best. And we know about you, too.'

  Kessler took his chance. 'Where can I reach you?'

  'I'm still with the Schlemmers.'

  'What about the others?'

  'Look, there isn't time. People are beginning to pay attention. Bar in Kleingasse, the Aurora, most evenings after eleven. Just ask for Hanno Heyme.' He gave Kessler an arid grin, and was gone.

  Kessler pondered his next move.

  119

  Adamov thought, thank God I kept the best films in my own case. Thank God I switched hotels as soon as Ulli left me. What instinct had preserved him thus far, he didn't know, but it wouldn't be much good unless he got out of this place alive.

  He'd played along. He'd told them about the restaurant and the case full of porn films. His anus and his balls felt as if they'd been set on fire; they still thought he was lying, and they were right; but he'd hoped he was a better actor than that. That fucker Schiffer, thought he was a psychologist, thought no-one deserved to second-guess him. The bastard must have gone mad.

  Oh, God, how it hurt, how he longed to be able at least to stretch his legs, bent double now for twenty hours. Well, he'd hinted at such things in his films: the simplest tortures are the most effective. What a mind Man has, he thought. He pressed his lips together and tried to focus on what he'd do if he got out of here. No-one knew where his important suitcase was, no-one knew in what little hotel near the Ludwigsbrücke he had a room. They hadn't got that out of him. They hadn't even asked. They were too confident. He tried to cling to that thought.

  Ulli and Big George. How could he have taken them on trust? And Moritz? How could he have been so naive? Well, too late now. Allegiances shifted. So Big George thought it was OK to keep in with the Fat Boys and the Gestapo, well, fuck him. If he got out of this, and the Americans came, and the war ended, he'd see their guts torn out and he'd fucking well film it.

  Oh, how it hurt. They'd used a poker and a blowtorch. Always the simplest things. And he'd been so close to getting the papers when they'd nabbed him. Trust no-one! But you have to, you have to if you're going to make any progress at all.

  The pain was making his mind whirl. He shook his head, gently, otherwise it swam in agony, to try to clear it. The Jews were the best forgers, and he hadn't expected to be betrayed by a Jew. But Moritz had a family to protect, was working for the Party anyway, probably, who knew? So close. Marseilles, Lisbon, Rio de-fucking-Janeiro. This instead. He tried not to think of the other Veit Adamov, already on the boat, on the Atlantic, cocktail in hand, slinky woman opposite, the Old World festering in blood and dust behind him.

  Christ. He couldn't sit and he couldn't stand. But Schiffer knew Hoffmann, and Schiffer wanted specific information. Adamov wasn't sure how much more pain he could stand. If they let him go, if they really let him go, if he gave them what they wanted, then he'd collect his case, follow his dream and get out. He thought vaguely of a city in South America, full of tall girls and Spanish churches. He'd never been there. He'd find the right people. His three best films would speak for him, especially Young Love, Old Lust. And he would come to an accommodation with his conscience. Better a live dog than a dead lion.

  He hadn't told them anything yet. How much did they think he knew? But would they kill him if he gave them nothing? Would they kill him anyway? He thought it likely. He still had a brackish taste in his mouth from the last bottle of schnapps, but it was better than the taste of the blood which had mingled with it. He could do with a drink now. The beating they'd given him had shocked him into sobriety. His tongue was swollen from when they'd hit him, and he noticed that one of his molars had worked loose. It made him feel like crying. He listened in dread for the sound of approaching footsteps.

  They came for him again, dragged him out of the cell and down the corridor to the tiled room with its metal desk in one corner. There was a high window, barred, which let in bright yellow sunlight. The floor of the room was plain cement, and there were stains on it and on the walls. Apart from the desk and a few chairs scattered around the room, some with uniform jackets hanging on them, the only other piece of furniture was a heavy wooden stool.

  Schiffer sat at the desk, in his shirtsleeves. Five or six burly men stood around the walls, also in shirtsleeves. They looked at Adamov coldly as the two guards who had brought him in stripped him, tied his legs to the stool, and his arms behind his back. Adamov couldn't help it: he wet himself. This had the effect of making some of the men laugh. The guards, their job done, retreated.

  'Now then,' said Schiffer, as soon as they were gone. 'Are you going to be sensible?'

  'I've told you everything I know.'

  'We think you contacted Hoffmann in Leipzig.'

  'Yes, I may have seen him there; but that doesn't mean I know where he is now.'

  Schiffer looked at his gang and nodded. Two of them moved in on Adamov with rubber truncheons and hit him in the small of the back and in the stomach. They went on hitting him for three minutes, then Schiffer told them to stop.

  'Well?'

  'I don't know what you want.'

  'We know he's been seen near Iphofen - do you know anything about that?'

  Adamov was suddenly alert and hoped that it didn't show in his eyes. The location of Tilli's country estate was known, but she hadn't been in the headlines for years. Was it possible that Schiffer didn't know about it? Was it possible that he hadn't checked with his colleagues?

  He decided to risk it. 'I don't know where Iphofen is. I've never heard of it.'

  Schiffer picked up a paperknife and studied it. 'I don't want to use this on you, Veit, I really don't; but if you won't play ball...' Taking his time, he walked over to where Adamov sat. He took one of his hands almost gently, then tightened his grip as he rammed the blade of the paperknife under the nail of Adamov's ring finger, and twisted it. Adamov jerked his hand away with a roar, the nail tearing off as he did so, throwing himself off balance and toppling over on the stool.

  Schiffer withdrew to his desk, then nodded, and watched as his men righted the stool, then ki
cked and punched Adamov for three more minutes, knocking the stool over again and him with it, flailing him with lengths of wire. Blood spewed out of him, arching across the room to splatter the walls. Then they sent him back to his cell.

  Schiffer had got nothing out of the baker's wife, and had finally been convinced that she knew nothing. He'd let her go, she'd be all right, a few bruises, a couple of teeth, nothing much. But he'd reached a dead end again, and Berlin was getting impatient. He didn't want to be taken off the case. He was scared. He needed to nail Kessler. And then fate had dropped this little package in his lap. Veit Adamov. Hoffmann's old crony, old commie, last noticed by the Gestapo in Leipzig. Well worth a shot, when you had as little to go on as Schiffer had. Small world, but not really a surprise; most of the rats had been jumping ship for Munich. Just as well Big George wanted the porn for himself.

  At the next session, under the blows, Adamov screamed and cried. He was covered with blood and slime, and finally he vomited. They forced him to clear up his own mess with his hands before he fainted. They threw buckets of ice-cold water over him and let him lie. One or two produced bottles of schnapps and sandwiches and passed them around. Thirsty work. One of them complained that he'd sprained his wrist. The wire lashes had cut the palms of some of the men wielding them. They improvised handles from rags or newspaper. They poured schnapps on his feet and set fire to it.

  120

  Adamov regained consciousness and crouched on the ground, on his knees, the stool, tied to him, digging into his buttocks and the backs of his legs. He tried to think but all he could feel was a burning pain that shredded his whole body. The molar had worked itself looser, he couldn't help worrying at it with his tongue, and at last it fell out. The loss of the tooth shocked him. He could feel his flesh swelling, his left eye was closed. From far away he heard Schiffer's voice. Did he only imagine a note of panic in it?

  'Look, all this can stop. You're not dead yet and you're not past recovery. That won't be the case much longer. We'll cripple you permanently. Now, tell me what you know or I'll have you killed in a way you have never dreamt of.'

  What could Adamov say? He could tell him where Tilli lived, and that would be enough. It would be a betrayal of the people who were dearest to him, and it would a betrayal of Kara's son. But he wasn't sure that he could withstand any more pain like this. Death would be better, and death would come more quickly, more mercifully, if he co-operated.

  Then suddenly, someone was thrusting a bottle at him. They pulled the stool upright, pulled his head back, and poured schnapps into his mouth. He was drowning in it, he felt small hard bits of matter in his mouth wash down his throat. He fought the bottle, pushed and gagged, but three of them were holding him.

  'He's lost a tooth,' said one of the men, in mock sympathy.

  'Tell me,' Schiffer said to Adamov.

  Adamov couldn't have spoken if he'd wanted to.

  'Even him up,' said Schiffer.

  They took a pair of pliers and wrenched a tooth out of Adamov's gums on the other side. Then they let him go back to his cell.

  They roused him at two in the morning for the next session.

  'I've had enough of this,' said Schiffer, and his voice sounded as if it came from the far end of a long tunnel, though at the same time it was crystal clear. Adamov felt his heart pounding, his head was still swimming with the drink, he was flooded with panic. He tasted the blood and the stale alcohol in his mouth.

  'Give him a shock. Sober him up, the bastard.'

  Two men held his head and neck in a firm grip while a third, after wiping his sweaty hands on a rag, stepped up to Adamov and grunting with the effort, started to tear the hair from his head. Adamov screamed and fainted again. When he came to, and it can only have been minutes later, seconds perhaps, someone held a mirror up. His good right eye sent a picture of a gargoyle to his brain. He started to sob, and could not stop for some time, no matter how hard they clubbed his arms and hands. He felt fingers break.

  'Try wanking over your filth now, you cuntarse.' Someone punched him in the right eye. Christ, don't let them blind me, he thought, don't let this go on in darkness.

  They threw water at him again. Schiffer came over and brought his face close. Adamov could smell his cologne. It was a scent Adamov had once used himself.

  'All right,' said Schiffer. 'Do you know what this is?' he held up, so that Adamov could see it, swimming in blood, an odd home-made contraption consisting of two short lengths of wood connected by wires. 'I'll show you how it works.' He handed it to one of his men, who looped it round Adamov's leg just under the knee, inserting a third stick through the wires, which he then began to twist. As they tightened, blood fountained from Adamov's leg and he felt his flesh tear to the bone. His head exploded with pain, pain to set him beyond screaming, beyond pain itself. The whole world shrank to one dark agony.

  He heard himself talking, babbling, hurriedly, getting it out, out of the way, anything for this to stop, even death, he couldn't stand any more of this. Somehow he'd make it all right, he'd outwit them, only he had to get out of here, somewhere safe, recover, fight another day, but first this had to stop. Christ, he'd never walk again, he thought, and hatred mingled with his fear. He tried to cling to the hatred, but the fear won, fear and shame.

  They gave him more schnapps, forced it into him, burning his stomach. Then they untied him. He fell on the floor in a messy heap, as if they'd removed his bones from his body, as if he'd been a puppet whose strings they'd cut. They hauled him up, pulled some clothes onto him, just trousers and a jacket, to cover him. Then he was bundled out into the open.

  It was night. There was a faint breeze which had cooled the air. He tried to breathe in deeply, but his lungs wouldn't expand properly, he couldn't even cough. They were manhandling him down an alleyway, tall grey walls on either side. At the end, a canal, or something. Dirty water a couple of metres below, anyway, and a muddy bank. They stood him face against a wall and threw a noose round his neck, tightened it and pulled on it until he all but blacked out. His body collapsed again, and this time it wouldn't respond no matter what they did. They kicked him where he lay but although his mind acknowledged what they were doing, there was no pain any more, this sack of flesh and bone wasn't him anymore.

  'The fucker's dead,' he heard one of them say.

  'Cunt. Chuck him in.' He felt them heave him up, he fell through the air, onto dirty mud. Water lapped at his cheek and lips. He heard their voices recede as they walked away. He couldn't believe his luck, but a part of him wished they'd done their job properly.

  He lay in the mud, it cooled him, it cooled the burning. The water caressed his face. He didn't know if this was by the sea, by a lake, where he was. He thought he could hear the wind in the trees. He was standing at the edge of a cliff in the darkness. He thought he had wings, huge dark wings operated by a vast new set of muscles in his back. They felt strange. He could fly. He threw himself out into the night.

  121

  Schiffer, showered and in a fresh suit and shirt, sat at his desk making phone calls. The ones which resulted in successful connections infuriated him. He had the address, he had the name. What he was not getting was any authorisation to act on them. He bit his nails. He wondered if he could risk it alone. He thought hard. Then he picked up the receiver again, hesitated for a moment, and asked the switchboard for a number. Miraculously, he heard the ringing tone within a minute. But then he frowned and hung up. Why shouldn't he have all the glory for once? He thought again. He'd need a team, and he'd need transport, but without authorisation, that might not be so easy. It would take time; and he didn't have much of that to spare.

  He'd try Berlin again, but he knew how much protection Tilli Cassirer enjoyed, and he knew that Göring was losing no sleep at all over any failure to arrest the conspirators against Hitler. He knew, too, that to challenge Göring's authority would be suicide.

  But he also knew that he could not let this chance go. If he pulled this off, he'd
be promoted. He'd be more powerful, and he'd have more powerful contacts. He had resisted thinking of South America, up to a point, but he had dug out one or two old maps, and pored over them, dreaming, at night.

  ***

  Kessler was woken by a discreet but insistent knocking at his hotel room door. He picked up his watch from the bedside table and squinted at it. Six in the morning. He crossed the room and opened the door to the man he'd called Hanno Heyme.

  'Do you want to tell me what I should really call you?' he asked after they'd greeted each other. 'And I assume this isn't just my wake-up call.'

  'Hanno's good enough for me, and for you,' said the man in black. 'In fact, I rather like it. And this isn't a social call. I think we've caught you a fish.'

  'What?'

  'There's a certain amount of adjustment going on in the gangs just now,' said Hanno, 'and there are casualties. We keep an eye on Gestapo HQ and we've got a couple of men in there, just to gather information. Of course they have to play along, but what can you do? - all news is useful news, and we want a few bodies to chuck to the Ammis when they finally arrive - good will, that kind of thing.'

  'Yes?'

  'There's a lot of flotsam and jetsam drifting down from Berlin,' continued Hanno. 'Some of it gets caught in our nets. The boys in black have been busy interrogating a handful of politicals recently, and they like to get rid of the rubbish when they've finished with it, don't want anything to stick to their hands, so they tend to throw it out in the middle of the night when no-one's looking. But they're nervous, they're in a hurry, they're not all, let's face it, very bright, so they make mistakes now and then. I think from your point of view, this time they've made a lulu.'