Now it was time to learn some German.
The stock of the rifle crashed into Cartwright’s arm, then his side, then his stomach. Pain rushed in in waves.
13
Tiedemann was in a foul mood. He was starving. Where was the food he had ordered to be made?
The entire squad was getting even further behind schedule as they wasted time in this mire of a crime investigation. He wondered if he would be reprimanded. They should be putting more energy into righting the overturned truck back on the road. But the hangover was the worst of it. Silently Tiedemann damned himself yet again for drinking so much of that awful Burgundy. He would stick to schnapps next time.
Gohler waited patiently by the door of the study. The sergeant had just finished giving his report about the Englishman and his antics in the cellar below. Tiedemann found it mildly interesting that the flyer was trying to communicate with a soldier performing a tedious guard assignment. But he suspected that it was little more than that. He didn’t buy Gohler’s interpretation that Cartwright was a spy, though whether the Englishman was their murderer remained to be seen.
“So, Herr Gohler, did your little interrogation prove whether Cartwright speaks German or not?”
“No, Herr Hauptsturmführer. I spent a half hour working him over. He doesn’t seem to understand anything but English. I must add, however, that I’m certain the Englishman is hiding something from us. Perhaps something more than trivial.”
“And you base this assertion on… what?”
Gohler stiffened. “Sir. I do have rather extensive experience with questioning prisoners. We had ample opportunity on the Eastern Front when we were dealing with partisans and informers. You start to develop a certain sensitivity to underlying motivations. I can read people, and that Tommy is worried about something other than his own skin.”
The rain was resuming outside, and fat drops of water began to splatter against the window pane. More bad luck.
Tiedemann thought for a moment before deciding there were enough people already trying to interpret the prisoners’ answers. “Thank you for reporting what you saw, Herr Gohler. I will take it from here. There’s something else I need you to work on, now, beyond managing the prisoners.”
“Of course, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”
“We need our vehicles back on the road so that we can get out of here. Get that truck upright.”
Gohler stiffened slightly at the abrupt dismissal of his interrogation. But soldiers of the Reich did nothing if not obey orders. “Sir! With your permission, we can accomplish that objective more quickly with more men. The Opel is stuck fast and quite heavy.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Let’s consolidate the guards and put the prisoners into the same rooms. That will let me put more men on truck detail.”
Tiedemann frowned, triggering a massive hangover throb. He needed food. He needed water. He needed closure. Who had killed Hoffman? He really didn’t want to slaughter this whole family and move on just to stay on a time table. His German upbringing was more precise than that.
“Fine, whatever. Get it done.”
“Jawohl.”
A flash of lightning from the window intruded into the room as Gohler exited. Only Krauss was left with him now.
“So, our Birmingham Englishman is now a special agent who speaks German? I think Herr Gohler must have drunk more than the rest of us last night,” Krauss needled. He fidgeted with his spectacles.
“That’s enough, Krauss.” Tiedemann slumped into the chair next to the window. He wasn’t about to have his subordinates riding each other, particularly when one of them was a bookish mole of a man who had seen little, if any, combat. “Gohler and Hoffman had quite a bit of service history together. I’m not saying that he’s imagining things, but if he is, it should be excused to some extent. He’s had a rough time.”
“Of course, sir,” Krauss replied with what barely passed as sincerity.
“Watch your tone, Herr Obersturmführer.”
Krauss stiffened and saluted. “Heil Hitler!”
Tiedemann rubbed his throbbing forehead and stared outside. There was a lot of shaping up that would have to take place amongst his soldiers and officer corps once they reached their destination. Krauss’s behavior was a prime example.
As a combat division, Totenkopf had performed moderately well in the frozen steppes of Russia. They had broken out of an encircled position after months of horrific weather and heavy casualties. But the steep losses in men and materiel meant there was a severe need for replacements. Getting good men was always a hurdle, but Totenkopf’s particular history provided a challenge for Tiedemann in his quest to rebuild his company.
Partly as a by-product of the stunning speed at which Germany had been able to subdue its enemies thus far, there was a continual need for a police force to fill the power vacuum left in newly occupied lands as the front-line military advanced. Just because a line on a map suggested that Poland or Czechoslovakia now belonged to the Reich did not mean that the citizens were somehow magically converted into loyal subjects. That was where the mainstream SS came in. The SS was responsible for occupying a new territory and arresting intellectuals, Jews, political and religious leaders, or any other influential or meddlesome persons who could stir up trouble by opposing the Nazi ideology. The Totenkopfverbände, or Death’s Head troops, had a particularly specific role in running most of the concentration camps that were set up in these areas to hold the dissidents.
However, the demand for replacements necessitated that parts of the SS be brought forward into field divisions. These units were designated as the Waffen-SS. Along with Das Reich, Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler, and others, Totenkopf was one of the named divisions that saw front-line combat, and true to its namesake many of its men came from the Totenkopfverbände camp guards. Unfortunately, this was a problem for a field commander like Tiedemann. At best, the fact that his troops had once been prison guards meant that their fighting skills were poor. There was a performance penalty for a lack of discipline and steady drilling. At worst, they could be petty and brutal monsters used to a life of easy power. It was Tiedemann’s job to build the esprit de corps and combat toughness his men would need in order to become an effective combat group. And while he felt he had a good corps of officers to replace the ones he had lost in Russia, the subconscious behaviors that surfaced from time to time served as a reminder that there was still work to be done.
But that was just the way it was. Tiedemann didn’t subscribe to the most extreme ideologies of the SS, but he had to make it work nonetheless. It was an ongoing, continual effort.
The rain had really picked up outside. Tiedemann’s attention drifted out into the view of the vineyard. It was quite pretty, with the hazy rows of grape leaves having turned yellow and red amongst the wet mist. The dark sky somehow seemed to accent the colors. A stray part of Tiedemann’s mind wondered if human remains would provide good fertilizer for a vineyard.
Damn it all.
He didn’t want to resort to a mass execution. This was not Russia. These were civilized French citizens he was dealing with. It was not right that Tiedemann and his men should have to use indiscriminate force to exact revenge. Or was it that he had become sick of death, sick of killing? How different he felt from even a month ago, where he would have no sooner ordered the death of Soviet guerrillas than a wounded dog in the street. That mentality seemed so inappropriate here in the Burgundy wine region. He wasn’t cut out for this. Tiedemann was a front-line man, where the enemy was clearly defined and fought according to the rules of engagement.
With renewed purpose, Tiedemann forced his mind back to the murder. He had to figure this out, even if everything he knew was circumstantial. What did he know?
Marc Rimbault certainly knew that German soldiers would be taking wine from the cellar, and he was hostile enough to suggest that he might actually act on that knowledge if he wanted to exact some twisted revenge on a lone SS man.
Cartwright, originally the most promising suspect, seemed quite oblivious to anything other than being a prisoner of war. Tiedemann couldn’t pick up on what it was that Gohler thought he saw. Either the Englishman was a fine actor, or else he was innocent of everything except being in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the wrong army.
Girard, the servant whom Springer had beaten severely in a fit of frustration, had a crippled foot and didn’t seem physically capable of winning any sort of physical struggle.
The rest simply didn’t make sense as legitimate suspects. Conti’s wife kept breaking into hysterics. She had to be out. What about the girl, Gabrielle? She was pretty, and certainly defiant enough if there had been any unwanted attention. Had she been accosted, fought back, and gotten in a lucky mortal blow? Philippe, the little boy, would be incapable of a melee with a grown man. But what if there had been some sort of accident? His weakness could be a reason that the body had not been hidden.
Why didn’t the murderer hide the body?
Tiedemann sighed. He didn’t think he could get away with another full day of delay.
“Sir,” Krauss said as if reading his thoughts, “I know this interruption in our travel is unacceptable. Would it perhaps be better if we turned over this investigation to the SD? I believe they have a field office just a short courier’s ride away in Dijon.”
Tiedemann frowned. There was no way he was going to turn this over to the secret service arm of the SS and deal with the embarrassment of one of his men being killed while the rest were drunk and off guard.
“Krauss, you’ve been taking all the notes as we talk to the prisoners. Have you not been able to draw anything from them as to who the murderer is?”
“Of course, sir,” Krauss squeaked eagerly. He looked delighted at this invitation. “The best approach, I believe, is to make an independent assessment of how Herr Hoffman was killed, develop the likely scenarios, and then look for supporting evidence to narrow the field. The evidence can be either physical or drawn verbally from the suspects’ stories, of course.”
For a full minute there was massive paper flipping from the little notebook Krauss carried with him. Tiedemann’s shoulders sank. This conniving little man was the antithesis of a warrior, with his narrow shoulders, excessively groomed moustache, and diminutive presence. It was amazing such men could get into the combat divisions. The need for replacements must be significant.
“Ah, here we are. These are some scenarios I have already worked up from my notes. May I read them to you, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Case one. Marc Rimbault detests the Reich so much that he opportunistically exacted vengeance upon Hoffman.”
“Obvious,” Tiedemann muttered. “But why would Rimbault not have hidden the body?”
“Perhaps he was trying to send us a message of his contempt.”
“And put his family in danger? I can’t rationalize that yet. What else?”
“Case two, Herr Hoffman was murdered by Robert Conti protecting his daughter.”
A variation on the self-defense of a pretty girl. “Go on.”
“Gabrielle is quite fetching, and virtually every man in the ranks is talking about her. I understand from the other officers that Hoffman was quite the womanizer who boasted frequently of his exploits. What if he had gone after her? Robert Conti could have happened upon a drunk Hoffman forcing himself upon the girl and smashed his head in with a nearby bottle. Quite an understandable reaction, though duty would demand that Hoffman’s death still be repaid in kind, of course.”
Tiedemann stood up and stretched. The idea was circumstantial, but certainly logical. He walked over to the small table where he had placed Hoffman’s personal effects. There were the usual items one would expect to find from a soldier in the field. A compass and map. A battered wristwatch. Identity disks. His Soldbuch, which upon cursory review revealed records of his pay going back six months. Keys to something known only to Hoffman. A weathered, creased photograph of a very pretty woman, though whether it was of Hoffman’s wife back home or a girlfriend in the field, Tiedemann now wasn’t sure. Many soldiers had both. Hoffman also had what appeared to be a love letter to go with it, but Tiedemann left it folded up. Reading was the last thing he felt like doing. Aside from a few coins, there was nothing else.
Tiedemann fingered the photo as he examined it.
“Looks like Hoffman had good taste in women,” he said finally. “And yes, the Conti daughter is certainly attractive. But I am not convinced that leads to rape, especially when he has someone like this back home.” Tiedemann thumped the photo with his finger. “What are your other possibilities?”
“Case three. Hoffman discovered the Englishman hiding in the cellar and was attacked and killed as a result.”
“I don’t think Cartwright hid in the cellar,” Tiedemann said. “I watched his eyes when he spoke of being in the kitchen since our arrival. I believe him.”
“But it makes sense, sir. I know you are keying off physiological clues, but let’s review the logic of the argument. Cartwright says he hid in the kitchen. But if you were trying to avoid the enemy, wouldn’t you go to the most remote place you could find? Wouldn’t you do anything to avoid accidental detection?”
“What if he didn’t have time to move?”
“The staircase leading to the cellar is right there in the kitchen. He could move back and hide underground with a minimal amount of increased effort.”
Tiedemann scratched his chin uncertainly.
Krauss looked through his notes. “Do not forget that Robert Conti contradicted Cartwright’s statement. Conti says they hid him in the cellar.”
“He was guessing. He backed off considerably when put under duress.”
“But logically,” Krauss pressed, “it makes more sense that the Englishman hid further away from where we were.”
“Then how did he come to be found in the kitchen cupboard?”
“Perhaps he was leaving the cellar.”
Leaving the cellar.
Perhaps. But why? Running from the scene of a crime? Why not run the other way, to the big underground wine cave far away from the enemy?
“Tell me, sir,” Krauss said as he flipped violently through his notepad. “What do you think about Cartwright being here in the first place?”
“I think the Tommies should have had a better pilot.”
“I, uh… yes, sir.” Krauss didn’t seem capable of appreciating the dry wit. “Nonetheless… I think surely he must have been the one that killed Hoffman.”
Something about that conclusion felt too wrong, too obvious. Tiedemann needed to think. And he needed to give his subordinate something to do so that he wasn’t incessantly hovering nearby, creating a nagging and constant distraction.
“Krauss, I need to write a letter to Hoffman’s next of kin explaining about his death. I want it done as soon as possible, particularly since he was killed behind the lines rather than in battle. Draft it for me, please. Address it to his wife, and finish it by the end of today so that I may familiarize myself with it.”
The look of distaste on Krauss’s face was plain as day. “Herr Hauptsturmführer, with all due respect, do we not have more important matters at hand? We still have an investigation to carry out.”
“Then I suggest you make haste in drafting the letter. Have Gohler work on it with you, he and Hoffman served together and were good friends.”
“I… of course, sir,” Krauss said, defeated. “Request permission to be dismissed.”
“Only if you find out what is holding up my food. I’m going to start randomly shooting people if I don’t have a meal here in the next ten minutes.”
Once Krauss had left the room, Tiedemann pulled Hoffman’s wedding ring out his pocket and rubbed the edges
with his fingers. Its pale gold was battered and worn, having seen many months in the harsh elements of the battlefield. Briefly he considered tossing it into the pile of Hoffman’s other personal effects. That was the official, procedural thing to do. But for some reason Tiedemann resisted. If the ring was included with the letter Krauss was drafting, Tiedemann thought it would get back to Germany much quicker than the rest of Hoffman’s belongings, not to mention the fact that a gold ring included in the official parcel ran the risk of not still being in there by the time it reached its destination.
Tiedemann put the ring back in his pocket. He would include it with the letter to the man’s family and trust that that would be enough. It was all that he could do.
Another soldier, loyal to the Reich, gone. At barely twenty-two years of age.
Tiedemann stood up. He had to single out the murderer. Even though he was surrounded by death on the battlefield, even though he never let himself get too close to the soldiers he served with—this time Tiedemann had to know who killed Hoffman. This was not war. This was murder. And maybe, just maybe, identifying the perpetrator would help Tiedemann continue to believe that there was a difference between the two.
14
Finally, food arrived. Tiedemann was seething. His head and stomach were killing him, and if he didn’t pass out he’d probably start shooting.
“This stew is cold, Springer! What the hell were those two women doing in the kitchen?”
“I’m sorry, Herr Hauptsturmführer. Apparently there was a mix up as to which of the two prisoners was supposed to bring food here to the study. I will have Herr Gohler discipline the men involved.”
“Never mind, just—damn it all. Give it to me!” Tiedemann nearly tore the basket off Gabrielle’s arm and took out the scraps of bread. The fool girl was trembling. Tiedemann chewed on the tough crust and considered her behavior. Gabrielle remained silent was staring holes into the floor. Quite a difference from when they had questioned her earlier that morning, where she had been all attitude and defiance. She was clearly afraid, more so than before. Why?
The Hazards of War Page 10