Dark Tales From the Secret War

by John Houlihan

  “Come on! Move along, move along now little Juden! This way to the promised land, that’s right, down the stairs, don’t run, we don’t want you breaking your little Hebrew necks now do we?”

  As the stormtroopers ushered them out, he slipped the stones into the top pocket of his uniform where they nestled just beneath his medal ribbons. The proceeds would have to be shared with his idiot Feldwebel and the rest of the unit later, he resented it, but there was no other option. Even an SS officer could not conduct this kind of business without giving his men their cut — to hold out on them would have been tantamount to suicide.

  The plain-looking daughter was the last to leave, her dark brown eyes full of mistrust and secret despair. There was no fooling that one, though why she had not screamed and shouted, attempted to tear down his smooth veil of comforting lies, he could not guess. To protect them — the rest of her family — from the coming horror? Perhaps. Much good would it do her, much good would it do any of them.

  The SS bustled the family down the stairs and then he was alone in the empty apartment. He walked to the window and lit a contemplative cigarette, looking out over the roof tops and canals of old Amsterdam. There were worse places to spend the war he supposed, the front line for one. Thankfully he had been spared that particular honour.

  He breathed smoke cones from his nostrils, blew an idle smoke ring and then caught his reflection in the window: the black uniform, the lightning-flashed SS-Runen insignia on his collar, the distinctive Death’s Head badge on his cap. He certainly looked the part and it suited him he supposed, elegant, sinister, menacing, the very embodiment of a loyal Aryan soldier, his blond hair and ice-blue eyes a testament of much-coveted racial perfection.

  In some ways he wished he believed even some small part of it, it might make it easier, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not summon the conviction of the true National Socialist zealot. Some, friends, family, colleagues, threw themselves wholeheartedly into this great fiction of racial supremacy, Aryan destiny, German dominance, because they utterly believed it; a great truth that they had been waiting all their lives for the party to uncover.

  Not he. From the very beginning the basis of National Socialism had seemed flawed, broken, totally ridiculous. Even now, years after the Führer’s rise to power and over a year since the war itself had properly begun, he was waiting for his fellow countryman to wake up, come to their senses, denounce it all as some bad collective dream. It was so absurd, he sometimes wondered just how Germany had managed to come to this pass.

  But yet…yet. He was a practical man he told himself and a fellow would be a fool if he did not take advantage of the hand life had dealt him. By the time he was of age, the wind had already well and truly blown and his looks, bearing and immaculate parentage had practically guaranteed him a place in the SS. He had taken to it too, bending rather than breaking before the wind which had scoured the Fatherland. What good would it have done to raise his lone voice anyway, swim against the prevailing tide? None. The juggernaut would have simply rolled over him and rolled on. He had witnessed the fate of those who dissented: torture, liquidation, bodies tumbling into mass graves.

  So he had concealed himself within their ranks: on the outside and to all appearances the perfect soldier, if perhaps lacking the fanaticism of the true believer. But on the inside? Well, who knew anymore? All the things he had done — or rather had ordered to be done for only on the rarest of occasions would he sully his own hands — what of them?

  He crushed the cigarette directly onto the window sill, and an acrid odour rose as the paint smouldered. Ach, this was useless introspection, it did no good and it served no purpose. A man did what he had to, to survive, it was as simple as that and at this place, at this time, this was what was required. Goodness? Rightness? Morality? Luxuries that only certain men could afford, and he was not one of them. Far better to leave questions of philosophy and morality to those who fully understood them.

  Indeed, better to concentrate on the task in hand which was to enrich himself sufficiently so that one day, or perhaps one dark night, he could simply shed this uniform as a reptile sheds its skin and slip away to a nice neutral country, where one could live quietly and where the wealthy weren’t asked any awkward questions. Switzerland or perhaps further afield, South America possibly, where he could finally wash his hands of this madness and live in anonymous retirement.

  But any such dream requires funding and although he abhorred this dirty work, this filthy war, at least he had found a way to make it pay. The Jews and the other enemies of the state readily gave up their secrets, their wealth, sometimes even their daughters’ virtue, if they thought it might buy him off. Occasionally he indulged himself, but it was the stones he really craved and here in Amsterdam, there was a plentiful supply. Delightful, permanent and portable in a way that gold or cash never were, they were the true objects of his desire, the building blocks paving the diamond-encrusted road to liberty.

  As darkness began to bleed into the sullen grey sky, he lit another cigarette and took the clipboard from the document case, consigning the family with a stroke of his fountain pen. Reading down the list of names, he could see there was just one more apartment left to investigate, number 13, on the top floor. The Dutch authorities kept such immaculate civil accounts with full records of racial, ethnic and religious origin that it had made his task almost laughably easy. What would a visit to this Mr Rosenstein yield? he wondered idly, then became aware he was not alone.

  Himmel’s ridiculous face hovered by the door frame, the fleshy lips already forming some pointless idiocy.

  “Well, what is it Feldwebel?”

  “The Jews, they’re ready, although they’re starting to squeal. Some of the lads had to use their…”

  “Spare me the details Himmel.” He struggled to keep the impatience out of his voice. “Anything else?”

  “No… sir.”

  “Then take them to the holding area immediately. After that you may return to quarters, disport yourselves as you see fit and consider your duty to the Fatherland over for another day.”

  “Very good Obersturmführer… and the merchandise?”

  “We will divide the proceeds as usual tonight.”

  “Yes sir. Will there be anything else?”

  His eyes briefly flickered down at the name on the document. It wasn’t wise to go fishing alone, but then he’d have to share the spoils and his irritation with Himmel won out. Surely he wouldn’t need any help with one simple old man?

  “No, that will be all. Dismissed.” He continued to look out of the window, exhaling smoke as Himmel’s plodding footsteps receded.

  * * *

  The corridor lay at the end of a flight of creaking wooden stairs right at the very top of the building. There was a little natural light from the sky light, but it hardly penetrated here and the shabby looking door seemed to lie at the end of a long shadowed tunnel. An involuntary shiver ran up his spine and he chided himself for his foolishness, hardly becoming in a grown man let alone a full blown officer of the Reich. His jackboots echoed on the old floorboards and he raised his fist, ready to deliver the knock that was always dreaded, but the door swung open of its own accord and suddenly he was looking into a narrow hall, piled high with books and manuscripts crammed onto its rickety shelves.

  Some parlour trick? He brushed aside the door and strode down the corridor, sudden fury masking his fear and he raised his foot to kick in the door at the far end, surprising himself with this sudden urge for violence. But it too yielded without a struggle, opening before him as if manipulated by invisible servants.

  He found himself in a large attic room, darkness had fallen quickly outside and the low flicker of oil lamps sent patches of light scurrying across its walls. These too were crammed with more books, ancient texts, scrolls, piled high almost everywhere the eye could see. A large black one-eyed cat sprawling across a vast leather-bound tome tilted its head to regard him, its body still, but its tai
l coiling in agitation. Dust and darkness clung to the fabric of the place like a living web and when the voice came, he almost jumped.

  “My apologies if I startled you, sir, I heard your steps on the stair and thought I had better let you in directly.”

  The words belonged to an ancient, huddled creature who perched over a large table at the far end of the apartment. The creased skin and straggly yellowing hair were framed beneath a skull cap. Long, loose robes marked with unusual symbols wrapped themselves around its spindly frame.

  “My apologies again, sir, old Jacob is not able to rise to greet visitors as easily as he used to.” A clawed hand tapped a rope and now he could see the rather ingenious system of pulleys which connected the table to the doors leading into the apartment. Foolish, the half light and oppressive atmosphere had almost made him believe some supernatural force was at work, but now he saw the rather more prosaic explanation. He unsheathed his records and tersely held them up like an accusation.

  “You are Jacob Rosenstein?”

  “Yes sir, please forgive the disorder, a bookseller and dealer in antiquities naturally collects such detritus as other men collect wives and family.”

  “You live alone here?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Papers.” The old man shuffled the documents across a desk that was worn and pockmarked, strewn with strange instruments and apparatus. He scanned the documentation quickly, barely registering the details other than the prominent stamped J, although all seemed in order. He began, not as unkindly as before, but as he spoke he scanned the apartment looking for likely places of concealment. Books and manuscripts were no use to him, scarcely worth the trouble of burning them, but there was always somewhere, somewhere where the treasure was hidden and he was an expert at ferreting it out.

  “So Herr Rosenstein, you are half Jewish?”

  “On my mother’s side, sir.”

  “I see, well Herr Rosenstein my purpose for visiting you here today is to determine how you may best serve the Fatherland, the new order which has swept the old certainties aside.”

  The man looked blankly at him.

  “Do you understand me?” He looked to see if the real meaning of his words had been comprehended.

  “I know little of worldly events I’m afraid,” said the figure in the chair. “People come and go, the uniforms change, but all that is important to me remains timeless.” The old man avoided his eye. Perhaps he needed to be more explicit?

  “That does not matter, what does matter is the nature of the contribution you are able to make.”

  “Contribution sir? I am just a broken, tired old man. I have few worldly treasures, only my books, my memories, little Victor,” he nodded at the cat. “Virtually nothing that other men might value.” He smiled, a sad snaggle-toothed grin that was, he supposed, designed to elicit sympathy. Clearly this one would require additional persuasion.

  “Everyone contributes in the end Herr Rosenstein, one way or another. I have considerable experience in finding and extracting the most important contributions from people, even when they apparently believe they have nothing to give.” He let that hang in the air for a moment, but the old man remained unperturbed.

  “I have nothing you’d want sir. Nothing at all.”

  “Ah, but you do have something, don’t you Herr Rosenstein? Something squirreled away? Something valuable perhaps, something that you thought you should put aside for a rainy day? All men do, it is just a matter of making them realise it. Well Herr Rosenstein,” he slammed his fist onto the desk, causing the cat to hiss and dive into the shadowy recesses. “That rainy day has arrived!”

  “Believe me, sir, I have nothing that honest men would desire.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. If you wish to remain here with your precious books, your precious memories, your precious creature, we had best see what this thing is that you are so keen to conceal.”

  “It is nothing, sir, nothing that anyone would want. Believe me I have…” Now the old man was starting to respond, panic edging his voice, tears forming in the corner of those rheumy eyes.

  “You have what? What were you going to say? Answer me now Herr Rosenstein or there will be consequences…”

  “I…”

  “Speak, speak quickly now for night falls and my patience begins to thin.”

  “Nothing I have… I have taken a vow. I can tell you nothing more.”

  “Nothing Herr Rosenstein?”

  “Nothing, except that I see you now for what you truly are Obersturmführer — and what you want. Let old Jacob tell you, avarice is a cage, a prison for fools and the unwary!” The old man’s voice was surprisingly defiant, his eyes blazing with indignation.

  “I see, well perhaps we shall see how susceptible you are to persuasion, how important this vow remains when it is put to the test.” He took out the handcuffs and drew his dagger, the one which he had received at the ceremony in the Feldhermhalle a small lifetime ago. It was supposed to be a sign of his heritage, his descent from the long line of Teutonic knights. The curved cross guard and sigrune gleamed in the lantern light.

  * * *

  It had taken less than ten minutes. One had to be more careful with the elderly for they were likely to expire from sheer terror as much as the pain. He wiped the blade clean on the old man’s sleeve. It was regrettable, he did not relish this kind of work as brutes like Himmel did, but it was, he had to admit, remarkably effective as a means of persuasion. As he had foretold, they all gave up their secrets in the end.

  For some, the sight of the blade alone was enough, they squawked like parrots before it even touched their flesh, but this Rosenstein was made of sterner stuff and had proved remarkably resilient. Yet, every man had his tipping point, every man succumbed when you discovered the exact pressure point to apply. Rosenstein had remained stoic, imperturbable, barely even crying out, grunting as the edge had cut his flesh, grimacing as he endured the pain. Disappointed, he had cast around for inspiration and found it in the form of the cat, grabbing it by the scruff of its neck and holding its hissing, spitting form up before those troubled old eyes. Then and only then had he given in: sentimentality, love for an inconsequential animal had proved this ancient’s undoing.

  “Now Herr Rosenstein, I believe you wished to show me something?” The old man was seized by a coughing fit and so he held up the blade again, as if examining it, but further motivation proved unnecessary.

  “Behind me… the centre bookshelf… third row from the top. There is a large book at the end…. bound in black leather The Malleus Maleficarum… pull the top of its spine toward you.”

  He stepped behind the old man, located the tome, barely pausing to read the title, words, just words. His finger lingered and then he pulled it back decisively toward him. For a moment nothing happened, then a sound, something grinding, something shifting and he sprung back suddenly wary of a booby trap, but the shelf merely sprung forward and then glided smoothly to one side.

  It revealed a hidden alcove, perhaps a couple of metres deep, it was difficult to say for it seemed to shift and move in the half light, but that was soon forgotten for there, there, set on a dark velvet cushion, topping a supporting cluster of lesser jewels and lit by a bank of tallow candles, was perfection. A diamond, but no ordinary stone this, but a paragon, a black emperor amongst jewels, its dark multifaceted surface glinting with candlelight and its depths gleaming with a strange inner light. Unconsciously he sucked in a breath of appreciation, this was beyond hope, beyond expectation, this was no mere stone, but his new life underwritten.

  “It is magnificent,” he whispered utterly entranced and without taking his eyes off of it, he said, “So this is what you have been hiding Herr Rosenstein, I see now why you were so reluctant to give up this treasure.”

  “Much good will it do you,” said the old man weakly.

  “Much good it will do me, I assure you.” He replied, taking a step, ignoring or perhaps simply failing to see the intricate insc
riptions inset upon the floor and around the lintels, so captivated was he by the stone which seemed to float before him now, haunting, vivacious, utterly desirable. It seemed to pull him toward it, a gravitational presence, filling his vision, drawing him in.

  He took another step, fully inside now and stretched his fingers out to reach the paragon, touch it, feel its unyielding surface. But he found it was like trying to push his hand through dense liquid, everything seemed to slow, the alcove stretched crazily, its walls bending and contorting like some vivid waking dream. But he would not be denied and he willed himself toward it, his focus entirely on the black diamond, his fingers stretched closing the final few centimetres. Ah, such beauty, such desire, such longing, he felt the pleasure of anticipation thrill his brain. So close now, its pull so strong, it was like a physical thing and then his elongated finger tips brushed its surface.

  “Beautiful isn’t it?” He heard the old man’s voice again but now it was not weak or frail, but powerful, patrician. He found he could not turn his head, could not move his body and now his fingertips penetrated beneath the diamond’s surface, a strange sensation like a stellar cold began to creep up his arm.

  “Patience Obersturmführer, we have a little time now. Don’t attempt to struggle, it will only make matters worse,” said the old man.

  He tried to open his mouth, but the muscles would not obey, his face contorted with the effort. The jewel seemed to have hold of him, was beginning to draw him in beneath its glimmering surface.

  He tried to pull away, but he was held fast.

  “It is a carbonado,” said the old man. “An extremely rare black diamond, not of this earth, but formed in the depths of interstellar space, perhaps even the heart of a star, our mystics are uncertain. Many eons ago it fell to earth near one of our holy places, the living heart of a meteor, the surrounding rock burnt away by its passage through the heavens.”

  He felt his skin begin to warp and buckle, flesh flowing, melding through the surface, he tried to resist, pull away, but his body rippled gelatinously, helpless before its overwhelming gravitational influence.