Ernst Grabner had been pleased to hear from him and promised he would make sure Karl didn’t wind up back with the supply troops or behind a desk. Ernst had powerful friends and could send Karl wherever he wished. That’s how he’d ended up in France.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and looked out the tall window. Afternoon was turning into evening, and the others had built a bonfire down on the lawn. His thoughts occasionally turned to all that he’d experienced on the eastern front, but he was far away from Russia now, far from death and danger. He was safe here because the English were cowards and the Americans preferred talk to action. They had nothing to fear. And even if the enemy did try penetrating the Atlantic Wall, they would do so near Calais, and they wouldn’t stand a chance.
The eastern front did something to people, something he couldn’t explain. People grew wild, primitive, beastly. He’d seen farmers and soldiers lying in ditches, shot in the back of the neck. He’d witnessed a prison transport full of diminished, lethargic, and deadened beings. When one of the prisoners had collapsed, the rest had come alive, tearing the corpse to pieces and devouring it with terrifying swiftness. Germans would never behave like that. Although he’d seen his own countrymen act indecently, he knew they would never eat their own.
He dressed and walked out to join the others. He sat on a wine crate and looked up at the little chateau. The towers on the outside of the building were like small, thick barrels, and the wall was in good shape. He savored the moment and its aromas. He loved those rare flashes when he managed to forget everything.
They sat in the splendid garden among small fruit trees and well-tended shrubbery. As he had done on prior evenings, Laub was squatting down, feeding wood to the bonfire. Everywhere he went, Karl noticed that someone always accepted the role of tending a fire. That person took to the task eagerly, ensuring the perfect distribution of hardwood, sticks, and twigs—as though it were some kind of high art form. This was always accompanied by explanations of how beech and oak burned longer, and disdainful remarks about willow’s capacity to burn. With Laub it was no different.
All the men he’d begun to like were sitting around the bonfire: Herbert Malinowski, the tall Schröder, Laub, Danek, Wiessmeier, and the two drivers whose names he didn’t remember. Schröder played the accordion, and they sang. A bottle of red wine was passed around, and nobody worried where the next would come from because the basement of the estate housed an abundant collection.
Danek tossed the empty bottle on the fire, and Laub glared at him. “It could explode, you idiot.” But he said this without any irritation in his voice as he scooped the bottle out of the fire.
Karl grinned. He felt young and comfortable. He couldn’t imagine anything that could burst the joy he felt just then. He was part of a community united in its hatred of Germany’s enemies. That seemed a noble cause at the moment.
He reached between his legs and pulled a new bottle from the crate. He examined the label before he tossed the bottle to Danek.
Ralf Burchert joined them.
“Let’s see it,” shouted Danek impatiently before Burchert had even managed to sit down.
Burchert rolled up his sleeve to reveal his new tattoo. His skin was swollen and red. Karl watched Malinowski pleasurably smoking his pipe. He seemed much older whenever he puffed on the fine piece of wood. Karl frequently forgot about the age difference between them because Malinowski was always calm and measured, and always communicated with beautiful but enigmatic expressions.
“Good work.” Danek nodded at Wiessmeier.
“How many does that make?” Danek asked.
“Fifteen,” came Burchert’s swift reply.
“Including the SS tattoo?”
“Yes.”
Malinowski pointed the tip of his pipe at Karl. “Have your appendages ever been beautified with such a humble splatter?”
“If you mean the blood type tattoo, then no,” Karl said.
“Wiessmeier can take care of that in no time,” Danek said. “Right?” He glanced at Wiessmeier, who was suddenly attentive.
“No, that’s okay. It’s not for me,” Karl said, hastening to add, “I’m not in the Kriegsmarine, you know.”
“Come on,” Danek insisted. Schröder nodded approvingly.
“I don’t know. Do you all have one?”
Everyone nodded.
“No, I can’t do it.” Karl laughed and glanced at all the faces glistening in the fire’s light.
Wiessmeier stood. “Let’s get it over with.”
Schröder had put his accordion down, and now all they could hear was the crackle of the bonfire. Everyone’s attention was focused on Karl, who finally responded.
“Oh, what the hell,” he grinned, a tinge of misgiving in his voice. “Let’s do it.”
Neugraben, Germany, May 16, 1944
He heard Armin Brunner’s dog barking in the distance. He must have dozed off. It must have sniffed out some terrified woman and forced her into a corner. He imagined it lunging at her, snapping its jaws, while Brunner did nothing to stop it.
He swung his legs down from the table and lit a cigarette with his table lighter. Judging by the sound, the dog was getting closer. He’d already forgotten its name. He stretched lethargically and glanced at the clock. It was afternoon now. He had nothing to do; he was superfluous. He was sitting in the office only because someone had to take responsibility for the place.
Gerhard had thought of Neugraben as an opportunity. He’d wanted to make things better. He’d wanted to provide the inmates with food and blankets, give them a little hope, a little dignity. He would be to Neugraben what Lorenz hadn’t been for Neuengamme. The difference would be that Gerhard cared about his prisoners. But he’d quickly admitted defeat. It didn’t matter that he was the camp commandant; there was nothing he could do. Everything was insufficient: the financial means, the food, the barracks, everything. He’d reproached Lorenz, but in reality they were no different. He’d been so naïve. No matter what he did, they would still die. He couldn’t save them, so why try? Why believe that he could make a difference? He sat in his office—waiting, apathetic—but he didn’t even know what he was waiting for. For the war to be over? To discover that it was all just a nightmare? For someone to save him?
He heard Brunner’s boots against the wooden boards in the reception area. His second in command resembled a film star—with his long nose, square face, and cleft chin, he looked like Cary Grant or Randolph Scott. Gerhard suspected that Brunner and Anneliese Möhlmann were lovers. He had no proof; maybe he just thought that because they were both beautiful. And maybe he just thought they were beautiful because the camp was otherwise devoid of beauty.
A draft carried the stench of the camp beneath his door. The pretty Möhlmann, with her angelic face, was the very personification of evil, and she played a key role in the death stink that hung over the camp. Even in the most macabre corner of Gerhard’s mind, he’d never imagined that women could be the most brutal of all.
As usual, Brunner entered without knocking. “One of the prisoners was given food from people in the city,” he said, more loudly than necessary.
Gerhard had feared this moment. Though he didn’t know Brunner well, he knew he’d be a by-the-book type in such a situation. Gerhard was aware that people in the city gave prisoners food whenever they worked in the clothing factory downtown, but he hadn’t planned on doing anything about it. Just as in Neuengamme, the prisoners didn’t get enough to eat—despite his best intentions. He’d just hoped that Brunner would never find out.
“And what do you suggest we do?” he asked a little hesitantly, fully aware that it was up to him. He hoped Brunner would handle it.
“It’s customary for the commandant to punish the first one to break the rules.” Brunner was more familiar with both the written and unwritten rules than Gerhard. Gerhard’s impression was that the only thing Brunner liked was his dog, which now sat obediently at his side, following their conversation wi
th interest. It went everywhere with him, and he spoke to it the way one would speak to a lover.
“That’s out of the question,” Gerhard said evasively.
Brunner was clearly racking his brain to think of something to say because he paused for longer than usual. Gerhard took great pains not to look at him. Finally his subordinate cleared his throat. “Then I’m afraid I must report you. It is your duty.”
Like a card player, Brunner had now revealed his trump: the accursed SS law that hung over them all the time like a hungry vulture or constantly prodded them like an admonishing index finger. They’d made a pledge of allegiance to carry out orders, and if they refused, they were shot. It wasn’t a direct command, but what was he to do—challenge the entire system? He would lose; he knew that much for certain. Brunner obviously wasn’t afraid of Gerhard, and why would he be? What reason had he given Brunner to respect him? He’d done nothing. Everyone could see that he didn’t belong here, but Brunner was the only one who dared take advantage of that. Why should Gerhard punish a woman whose only crime was hunger? He looked at the dog, who stared back at Gerhard as though it, too, awaited his response. He swallowed a lump in his throat.
To Brunner, the rules were sacrosanct. People’s fates did not concern him, and he didn’t suffer from the flaw called compassion. Gerhard had seen many men like Brunner at Neuengamme. Before the war they’d been tram conductors, warehouse foremen, factory workers. They were hardworking and efficient, but only when their work was clearly structured. The war was their opportunity to change their lot, and Brunner understood that.
Brunner stared at Gerhard, who made a dismissive gesture. The subordinate interpreted this as capitulation and nodded.
The silence lay like a mist over the courtyard. The only sounds were the soft rustle of the wind in the treetops behind the camp and the whip’s lash against a naked back. Gerhard swung it again. This time with more force. He no longer heard it slice through the air. The first few lashes had been excruciating. The whip had seemed heavy, and he hadn’t brought his arm all the way down. Now he moved in a constant rhythm. Every time the leather met flesh, a gasp went through the other prisoners, who were all gathered on the square. He averted his gaze from the woman, who’d stopped screaming. He’d actually believed her screams would get louder the more he struck her.
Thirty lashes; it was simple mathematics. He had to lash her thirty times before he could stop. He needed twenty more. Armin Brunner stood with his back to Gerhard, facing the prisoners, his dog’s leash wrapped twice around his hand. The German shepherd sat unperturbed at his side.
Gerhard wished he’d had the courage to say no, to put Brunner in his place. He was the commandant, after all, and yet he’d been humbled and forced to carry out this inhumane act. But he didn’t dare disobey SS ordinances. He was a coward. Goddamn me and goddamn Brunner.
He whipped Brunner. The lashes grew in strength. He whipped Heinz, he whipped Kögl, Glienicke, Lorenz, Turek. He stopped counting; the numbers were suddenly gone. The woman whimpered. He didn’t see the blood. He knew it was there; he just didn’t see it. And he didn’t see the raw flesh, the long strips crossing her back. He whipped for Karl, his brother whom he no longer knew; he whipped for August; he whipped for Emma, Laura, Hilde. He’d become mechanical; he’d become a machine and nothing more.
That’s why he didn’t notice when the woman stopped moving. The guards had turned their heads, Brunner’s dog barked, Gerhard’s uniform was red with splattered blood, and the woman didn’t move. He paused. Everyone was silent.
He took a step back. He dried his mouth on his sleeve, which came away white with froth. He slowly turned his head and looked at the female guards, who were standing stock-still. He looked at the prisoners, who were staring at the ground. No one met his gaze. Even the rustle of the wind in the treetops seemed more subdued now. He opened his hand and let the whip fall to the ground. He studied the bloodstained switch. Fresh blood clumped the gravel. He swayed a bit as he started to walk away. He was careful not to look at the dead woman as he stumbled past her on the way back to his office. Behind him the silence was broken only when Brunner began snarling orders. His shouts echoed in Gerhard’s head. Before long the courtyard was empty.
Every time he walked through the courtyard, it felt like a crime scene. He’d suddenly become everything he had never wanted to be. He was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Until now he’d been able to tolerate the camp because he’d accepted the absurdity of it. But now everything had been turned on its head, made irreversible. He, Gerhard Strangl, had killed a human being.
He’d been frightened by his own intensity during the incident. He’d felt like someone outside of himself, watching the whip, arm in motion, lashing the woman’s back. He hadn’t realized he was capable of such a thing. He had believed that he knew himself, his thoughts, his actions, his methods of response. But now he was afraid of himself, afraid of what he might do.
Many prisoners died. New prisoners arrived and they died, too. Illness, malnourishment, work accidents, and beatings were the most common causes of death. Gerhard remembered one prisoner, a tall Czech woman with scarred arms and legs. She’d come from Auschwitz at the beginning of 1944, and he’d noticed her right away. She seemed so strong and indestructible that even Möhlmann couldn’t break her. In a way he admired her.
It was around this time that Brunner’s dog died. One evening it began vomiting. Then its muscles cramped up, and finally it expired. The dog’s death amused Gerhard, but Brunner was beside himself.
Convinced that his dog’s death wasn’t the result of illness or natural causes, Brunner began to brutally interrogate select prisoners. Many succumbed to his methods and perished. He didn’t give up, and after he had for weeks terrorized the prisoners even more than was customary for him, a Czech woman, to save her sister inmates, finally confessed. She’d force-fed the dog dark chocolate, and all the theobromine had killed the animal. They never found out where she’d gotten the chocolate.
Her punishment was for all to see. Tied to a wagon wheel in the center of the courtyard, she reminded Gerhard of Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. And there she remained until she died of hunger.
Carles, France, June 10, 1944
The truck came to a stop, and Karl jumped down on the cobblestone street. He stood in front of the vehicle, studying the colonel of the regiment, Rudolph, who was leaning against a fountain in the town square. The privates were setting up the headquarters in the town hall, dragging, carrying, and maneuvering equipment into position. A private unfolded a chair next to Rudolph, and the colonel wiped it off with his hand before sitting down and crossing his legs. He tilted his head back a little and caught sight of Karl. The ambitious and arrogant colonel reminded Karl of Emil Morgenroth. There was something overbearing about the way he sat there, like some plantation owner surveying his land while sipping a glass of red wine. The way he carried himself suggested he didn’t give a damn about the war. It was just an obstacle to be overcome. Karl headed toward him reluctantly.
“We’ll never get to Normandy if these bandits keep delaying us.” Rudolph made a frustrated face and studied Karl. “Are you the man for the job, Strangl, or do we need to get one of the younger guys to do it?” He raised his glass of wine to his lips.
Karl didn’t respond but managed to nod curtly.
“You’re a veteran of the Russian theater. It should be no problem for you.” Rudolph gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, and his wine lapped over the brim. “You know what I expect of you.” He licked the wine off his hand. “And remember,” he added, “cowardice is infectious.”
Karl tried to conceal his irritation. Why the hell did Rudolph think he could talk to him like that? Karl was the head of the battalion now, and yet he had to obey this boy. What did he know about war? Wasn’t it his first?
But Karl knew he had no choice. He couldn’t refuse it, and if he didn’t satisfactorily complete the assignment, he’d end up with another shit job just like
it. He had to do it, and effectively, so that he wouldn’t have to do it again, because this was the kind of assignment he could only do once.
He agreed that they needed to clamp down hard on the maquisards, who’d shot three careless SS soldiers at a railway crossing near Balfour-sur-Roche; the resistance movement’s courage had vastly improved following the Normandy landing a few days earlier. He just didn’t want to be the one to do it.
He walked to one of the trucks and called for Darrah, one of the forcibly conscripted French soldiers from Alsace. “How many people live in this city?”
“Three hundred to five hundred, I’d say.”
Karl took a deep breath, then clenched his jaw. “Find Captain Malinowski. Tell him we’re ready for a briefing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Malinowski, the head of the company, nodded slowly, contemplating his pipe as Karl gave him the command.
“We need to be brutal. They’re a bunch of goddamn communist terrorists,” Karl said, repeating Rudolph’s words. Laub, Danek, and Burchert seemed eager, Schröder and Wiessmeier less so.
Karl watched the soldiers climb into the trucks. They were young, very young, the youngest no more than seventeen. His henchmen were all overgrown kids. They didn’t look very brave; in fact they looked a bit anxious. Just like the cuckoo chick August had found once. That bird’s wing had been broken, but these boys were still intact—for now, at least.
He climbed in beside the driver, who’d told him his name at least fifty times. He still couldn’t remember it. Then they headed toward Balfour-sur-Roche. They drove through the highlands and the affluent villages with their massive stone houses. There was no lack of food here, and flocks of sheep and muscular Limousin cows grazed in fields and small groves that gave off a pleasant scent. A road sign at a T junction indicated that they were about a mile from the village. The column waited for a bus carrying a large charcoal oven and chugging slowly toward Balfour-sur-Roche.
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