by Mat Nastos
The sole exception to that autonomy came in the form of one Stadtler Tillmann, a sixty-three-year-old veteran of the Great War and member in good standing of the Nazi party. Herr Tillmann had done great deeds in the name of the Fatherland in his younger, healthier days, and was given a position as head of security at Bulovka as reward for those services. Although his once rock-hard muscles had softened – mostly around his now puffy middle – and his rheumatism kept him from being as active as he might have preferred, Tillmann thoroughly enjoyed his station. It gave him just enough authority to make him feel important and enough limitations to that authority to keep the locals happy.
It was an excellent post for the aging soldier, and both sides were pleased with the situation. Retirement for Tillman had been as quiet as it had been peaceful.
That peace ended as a herd of drab-gray vehicles stormed through the front gates of Bulovka and a horde of Nazi soldiers scurried into the hospital. With the invaders came angry sounds – yelling, men running, and equipment being unloaded. Sounds that woke Tillmann from the nap he’d been taking in the comfortable, handmade leather chair given him in exchange for overlooking a number of staff infractions; sounds that caused him to spill the last few precious sips of beer he’d been nursing all afternoon.
All in all, it was the sort of disruption Tillmann had always dreaded would come. The sort that would spoil the perfectly good war he’d been able to mostly ignore. His experiences thirty years earlier had shown him that war was only good for politicians. For the common man – the soldier, the sailor, the citizen – all it left was spilled blood and spilled beer.
A weary sigh and a few rather loud grunts escaped him as he pushed to his feet and staggered out of his fan-cooled shack situated on the edge of the compound’s parking area into the oppressive heat of the Czech noon to get answers.
The sight of Reinhard Heydrich’s bloodied body being pulled from the rear of a transport and being spirited into the cavernous interior of the main hospital building – accompanied by enough Wehrmacht troops to fill a football stadium – gave Tillmann the sort of answer he decided he didn’t want.
Dodging an outlying group of soldiers intent on securing every inch of the hospital grounds, Stadtler Tillmann spun one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees on his heel and returned to the safety of his tiny office. His own intentions were as clear as those of the soldiers in the courtyard: he would find the last bottle of beer he knew was hiding beneath a pile of papers on his desk, and he would go back to ignoring the war.
* * *
Within the high concrete walls of Bulovka Hospital itself, another battle was being fought by the Czech surgical staff. One against death itself, and at the business end of a hundred Nazi-held guns. In the operating gallery, the Bulovka doctors and nurses seemed outnumbered by soldiers three-to-one, and chaos swarmed around the shuddering body of the Reichsprotektor lain out on a cold, steel table. The man struggled for breath as the medical team, led by Doctors Diek and Slanina, worked to repair the damaged inflicted on the Nazi leader’s abdomen. His intestines had been severed in three places and the contents of his stomach spilled onto the stone floor below.
Diek exchanged worried glances with Slanina, both fully aware of what would happen should their efforts to save Heydrich’s life fail: the hospital staff would pay with their lives before the man’s body had cooled. Then Prague, and even Czechoslovakia itself, would pay.
Barely lucid from the pain and drugs fighting for dominion in his system, Heydrich reached out with one pallid, bloodless hand to grip the blood-soaked arm of the attending physician working on his stomach. The claw-like appendage wrapped around the Czechoslovakian doctor’s wrist, and pulled him down so the Reichsprotektor could whisper in the man’s ear.
“Tell them to bring me Frank and Wittgenstein,” groaned the dying man in a hoarse wheeze. “Garm calls to me from Outside…”
With that, the injuries he had suffered and the drugs he had been given won out, rendering Heydrich unconscious. Diek pried the man’s fingers from his arm and backed away from the table, shaking. His nerves shattered by the insanity of the situation.
The doctor realized the irony of being forced to fight to save the life of the man who had been personally responsible for subjugating his country to German rule, and had the blood of tens of thousands on his hands. The irony of knowing the life he was battling so hard to save would go on to kill even more was not lost upon the middle-aged surgeon. And to know that failure would be at the cost of Diek’s own.
He would have collapsed had his mentor’s strong hand not chosen that moment to clasp his shaking shoulders reassuringly.
“Allow me to finish, my friend,” came Doctor Slanina’s warm voice. “You rest for now.”
A team of fresh members of the Bulovka medical staff slid into the room to replace those who had been working on Heydrich’s still form. Removing the soiled gloves from his hands and replacing them with fresh, sterilized ones, Doctor Diek pushed his way through the group to stand tall next to his old friend. Slanina greeted him with a smile that somehow still radiated warmth and hope.
It was going to be the longest day of Diek’s life. He just hoped it wouldn’t be the last.
* * *
“Does the Reichsprotektor still live?” Hagan asked impatiently, nearly jumping on the doctors as the men emerged from behind the closed doors of the operating room. Four hours had passed since the soldiers had brought Heydrich to the hospital and the wait had nearly driven Hagan to madness.
“For now,” answered the seemingly-fatigued Doctor Diek whose body was covered in equal parts blood and sweat from hours of struggling to keep the Nazi governor of Czechoslovakia alive. “Herr Heydrich has lost a lot of blood and the wound to his abdomen would have killed a normal man. As it is, we fear sepsis and infection more than anything else. It will be a miracle if he still draws breath in the morning.”
Hagan’s growing anger began to glaze everything in red, as the man at Diek’s side – the elder Doctor Slanina – added hopefully, “We are doing everything in our power to keep him alive. We have even summoned Professor Hohlbaum, chairman of surgery at Charles University in Prague, to bring his own considerable medical skills to our aid. If it is possible for the Reichsprotektor to survive, he will.”
Hagan wanted to kill both men. He hated being stationed so far from civilization in a rat’s nest like Prague. In Berlin or Vienna, the greatest surgical minds in the world would have descended in droves to help a man like Reinhard Heydrich. His commander would have been cured and back at command by the time the sun had set. These men were like roaches, swarming over the body of a greater being, bringing their disease and filth to it.
However, as long as his mentor lived, Hagan would resist his urges. “Did he say anything?”
The two doctors exchanged worried glances.
“Well?!”
“Yes, of course. In one of Herr Heydrich’s bouts of semi-lucidity, he called for us to bring him two men. He mentioned a man called Frank and a…” Slanina struggled to remember the second name Diek had mentioned.
“Wittgenstein! He demanded we bring Frank and Wittgenstein to him.” The sound of Diek’s voice bordered on that of an hysterical shriek.
Hagan knew the man had barely survived the early periods of ethnic cleansing in Prague when the Nazis had declared Czechoslovakia one of the Reich’s protectorates, and was deathly afraid of being ordered to board one of the long gray trains to the north.
“Yes, that was it.”
“The Jew? Are you positive?” Hagan was perplexed by the request. “Obergruppenführer Heydrich despises the man. You misheard him. I am sure of it.”
“Please remember, the Reichsprotektor was heavily sedated with morphine…” started Slanina.
“And completely disoriented in the brief snatches of consciousness,” added Diek, obviously the more high-strung of the pair.
> In a moment of contemplation that was very much out of character for the Nazi, Hagan dismissed the doctors – thanked them for their time and cooperation – and wandered out onto the great balcony that stretched along the entire fourth floor of the hospital in search of some air.
The entire situation was baffling. Why on Earth would Heydrich call for a man like Wittgenstein? The Jew’s scientific reputation had brought him into the Edda Society, yes, but the failures he’d experienced – failures that nearly killed the nine members of the Edda’s high council – had resulted in the man being out of favor with the group. The fact they had left him alive at all was a mystery in and of itself, and one Hagan couldn’t decipher.
Perhaps it was the talk of a great mind addled by drugs and pain. Wasn’t the clearer course to summon doctors from the Fatherland who were better equipped to handle the Reichsprotektor’s injuries? To save his life?
Swearing aloud, Hagan drove a fist through the tile-covered wall of the hospital in frustration.
Having to make these sorts of decisions never sat well with Hagan. It was one of the reasons he had opted for military service. Fighting on the front lines, killing the enemies of the Fatherland, that was where he excelled. Not politicking or dealing with logistics. Those were problems for lawyers, not for real men.
Deciding it would be best to deliver the unusual message and request to his superiors in Berlin, Hagan made his way down two floors to the communications office of the hospital.
Let wiser men than I make sense of these things.
His men had secured the area and the equipment upon arrival in order to control all information making its way in and out of the building. It wouldn’t do for word of the Reichsprotektor’s current condition to make its way into the hands of the Czech Underground. The tightest of control was the only way to deal with the anarchy of a backwater like Prague.
Sitting behind a large leather chair appropriated from one of the Czech doctor’s offices was Corporal Helmutt Reiter. The tiny, humid room containing what seemed to Hagan to be five tons of radio broadcasting and receiving equipment stuffed into a space allocated for two. A fan mounted in the ceiling did little to diminish the heat emanating from the steel and glass boxes Reiter’s hands moved over like a symphony conductor.
Hagan hated the heat and wanted to be done with the room as soon as he felt the blast of wet warmth on his face. He longed for the winter of the Fatherland.
“Corporal, I need to send a message to the Reich Chancellery with the greatest of speed.”
Hagan launched into his message without waiting for his subordinate to respond, causing the man to scramble for pen and paper to take it all down. Reiter confirmed the message before turning back to the highly-secret Enigma device, protected in a large leather case on his right, to translate Hagan’s words into code that could be transmitted across the open air waves without fear of the Allies’ interception.
The man turned to Hagan when his task was complete. “It is done, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”
“Very good. What was the response?”
“I’m not sure I understand, sir,” responded the corporal, confusion marring his features. “It will take some time for the other side to decode and answer. Sometimes it takes hours for a reply.”
Hagan was used to the immediate response time of radio to radio or even telephonic communication. “Of course,” he said, annoyed by the delay. Moving to the doorway in an effort to spare himself the brunt of the heat pumping out of the radios, Hagan stated, “I will wait.”
The corporal saluted and returned to his work.
Unfortunately, neither waiting nor patience was the strongest of his virtues. He had always been a man of action, constantly in motion even when at rest, and the twenty minutes Hagan was forced to wait for a response from Berlin nearly drove him mad.
When the thin youth seated behind the communications desk nodded to him and began deciphering the coded message from the Reich Chancellery, Hagan nearly jumped for joy.
“Thank you, Corporal Reiter,” said Hagan, taking the thin strip of white paper covered in handwriting so neat, Hagan mistook it for the work of a typewriter at first glance.
The missive came directly from the office of the Reichsführer of the SS himself, Heinrich Himmler. That Himmler had taken a special interest in the Prague situation was of no surprise to Hagan. Everyone in Germany was well aware Heydrich had been a protégé of Himmler for ten years and was brought into both the Nazi party and the Edda Society’s elite on the man’s recommendation.
The message was short and to the point: Himmler’s own personal physician, Karl Gebhardt, was in Dresdan and would arrive in Prague within a few hours. They must keep Reinhard Heydrich alive until then. The Reichsführer himself would follow from Berlin the next morning.
The last line of information nearly floored Hagan . One of the nine leaders of the Edda Society was coming to his city. With the power Himmler could bring to bear on the Czech citizens, they’d find those responsible and make them pay for the insults they had heaped upon their caretaker.
Hagan smiled to himself over this turn of events. He’d finally be able to show one of the Nine what he and his men could do. They would bring the enemies of the Edda Society to ground and tear them to pieces in the name of Heydrich. The Reichsprotektor would be pleased.
Turning down the dimly-lit hall leading to the hospital’s surgical suites and walking into the mass of chaos filling the area, a grim thought bore its way to the front of Hagan’s rage-driven brain.
Everything relied upon his master surviving in the hands of low-born gypsy doctors. Hands that were bred in the mud and dirt of this tiny armpit of the grand empire of the Third Reich. Hands possessed by men and women who were not always as grateful or respectful of what the Fatherland and the Führer had done for them.
Men and women who might very well have been behind the attack on the Reichsprotektor!
The thought solidified even further for Hagan, spiking his blood pressure to levels that began to change him once more. The soldier knew he had to get away from the mass of conspirators before his transformation fully took hold of his body and his mind or he’d kill everyone present. A darkened room near the rear of the building offered refuge for the Schwarzbär commander to calm himself.
Outside of the room, hospital staff no doubt heard strange sounds coming from behind the locked door – the sorts of sounds no human throat had any right or ability to vocalize. Roars and screams of pain and rage. Thrashing and banging, as if the room was being destroyed by a great beast trapped within.
And then, all was silent save for heavy breathing.
Another moment and Hauptsturmführer Hans Hagan, uniform askew and blood dripping from beneath his fingernails, emerged with a plan formed. He knew what he had to do.
Hagan marched outside, laughing as the gypsies costumed in the white uniforms of doctors and nurses parted before him in a wave. It took him less than a minute to locate the men of his unit – the only ones outside of the Edda Society he trusted with his life, who had walked the paths to Hel with him and returned as more than they had once been. Men who would follow his every order without question.
The barely-eighteen-year-old private Rudolf Eicke, jogged over in response to a wave from his commanding officer, clicking his heels together briskly as he saluted.
“Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler.” Hagan nodded at the youth, impressed as ever by Eicke’s efficiency and attitude. “Take Hoss, Werner, and Daluege. Find and bring me the families of Herr Doktors Diek and Slanina. We shall move their loved ones into the caring arms of the Einsatzgruppen to make sure nothing happens to them while they care for our beloved Reichsprotektor.”
“Yes, Hauptsturmführer!”
Eicke rushed off to gather the men and fulfill his assignment.
Looking back into the windows of the hospital with
eyes not completely human, Hans Hagan’s lips pulled back from enlarged teeth in an animal grin as he watched the soldiers depart. Perhaps this would give the filthy Roma doctors incentive to keep Heydrich alive. If not, their families, their friends, everyone they knew would pay the price for his life with an ocean of blood.
* * *
When the giant double doors leading into the master suite of the Wittgenstein villa were kicked in with enough force to splinter wood and knock them askew on their hinges, it was impossible to say who was more surprised: the unit of Waffen-SS soldiers rushing in and led by Doctor Karl Gebhardt, or the two men naked and entwined in each other’s arms, occupying the enormous bed in the center of the room. To have said neither side was overly pleased by the encounter would have been an understatement.
Overcoming his momentary shock at the sight of the men he had come to collect in the midst of what a quick look around the room revealed to be a rather vigorous session of lovemaking, Doctor Gebhardt snapped to attention and fired off a perfect half-bow toward the men. Neither the sight of two grown men involved in a homosexual affair – something outlawed by the Nazi high command – nor the presence of one man’s under garments hanging from a light fixture just overheard were enough to disrupt his sense of duty. Gebhardt did, after all, fancy himself a gentleman and would remain so even in the face of perceived impropriety.
“I do most humbly apologize for the intrusion, Herr Doktor Wittgenstein,” said Gebhardt as he removed his dark gray hat with its winged Swastika symbol of a Nazi party officer over the runed skull of the Edda Society. The forced affectation of his tone lent an edge to Gebhardt’s politeness that allowed it to border on being a threat. “If you would be so kind as to remove yourself from the good professor, we do have pressing business to discuss.”