by Alex Gerlis
There were three men behind the table, two of whom he recognised. Ponomarenko was his latest boss, a thin, worried-looking man with a weepy eye that he constantly dabbed at with a dirty handkerchief. Klimentov was also there, Ponomarenko’s boss. Viktor had time for Klimentov: he’d fought in the Red Army during the war, unlike so many of the others who’d spent it behind their desks in Moscow and fled the city at the first sound of distant German artillery in 1941. The third man he didn’t recognise; younger than the other two, good-looking with a dark complexion and a well-cut suit, not the kind made in a factory. Viktor was relieved to see his escort hadn’t followed him into the room. So far, matters were not nearly as bad as they could have been.
Klimentov spoke first, a long rambling tribute delivered in a soft, not unfriendly tone with a distinctive southern accent. Distinguished service … unequalled skills … personal sacrifice … unending gratitude of the Party and the State … Comrade Stalin himself … Viktor had heard it all before: just words, usually delivered before a reprimand but at least he’d probably leave the building alive. Interrogating Nazis … not a pleasant task … we recognise that … year in, year out … nevertheless …
‘Nevertheless,’ repeated Klimentov, his voice no longer soft and now distinctly unfriendly, ‘what the hell are you up to Krasotkin?’
***
Viktor had met Carsten Möller two months earlier, in mid-September, at a German Prisoners of War camp near Rostov. It was one of the larger camps, now half empty, and he’d interrogated prisoners there on many occasions. One of his team had been there recently and reported that a prisoner was insisting on speaking to ‘someone very important.’
He arrived at the camp on a cold morning, a wind from Siberia attempting to blow him back to Moscow. The camp commandant cut an obese figure, stuffed behind a desk piled high with files, the tops of a couple of bottles poking out behind them.
‘He is twenty-three and from Munich,’ said the commandant, who sounded asthmatic. He paused to light a cigarette, not bothering to offer one to Viktor. ‘He was a junior officer in a SS unit defending Leipzig when the city was taken by the Americans in April 45.’ The commandant was straining to read the notes in the file, wafting away cigarette smoke. ‘We took over Leipzig from the Americans in the July which was when Möller became our prisoner. He was transferred to the Soviet Union a month later.’
The commandant shut the file. And that’s that.
‘I’ve come all this way for you to tell me that?’
The commandant looked put out. ‘He said he wanted to talk to someone important. Apparently I’m not important enough. Insolent young Nazi …’
‘Before I go and see him, what else can you tell me?’
‘Not a lot: he’s young, one of the youngest SS prisoners that we have left here. He would only have been eighteen when he was captured. By all accounts he was a fairly hard-line Nazi at first but in the last year or so has been much quieter. He has become increasingly disillusioned and depressed as other prisoners have been sent back to Germany. I’m not sure what he wants to talk to you about but my instinct tells me it’s important. Otherwise I wouldn’t have brought you here.’
***
The commandant took Viktor to an interrogation room where the prisoner was handcuffed to a chair with a guard either side of him. Across the desk from him were two empty chairs. The commandant lowered himself into one of them.
Viktor told the guards to remove the handcuffs and leave the room. ‘You too,’ he told the commandant. ‘I’m sure you have plenty to get on with. All those files on your desk, you must be so busy …’ The commandant hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave, especially after having made such an effort to sit down.
Once he was alone with Möller, Viktor walked around the room. Although he couldn’t be sure, it was not unusual for these rooms to be bugged and even the thought of it inhibited him. The Russian picked up his chair and put it next to the German’s, although facing the opposite way. The two men were sitting shoulder to shoulder.
Carsten Möller looked younger than twenty-three, his fair hair no doubt bleached by the hours he’d spent outside. His blue eyes fixed on Viktor, following him around the room at first and then studying him closely when he sat down.
‘You wanted to talk to someone important, I’m told. I’m that person.’ Viktor spoke in German and he could tell from the younger man’s reaction that he was wondering whether Viktor was a native speaker.
‘And who are you? I need to know your name and what you do.’
Viktor folded his arms across his chest. ‘Son, I am afraid you’re not in a great position to call the shots. I’m as important a person as you’ll get to speak to. I’ve come all the way from Moscow, so you’d better tell me everything.’
‘If – when – I am sent back to Germany, can it be under a different identity?’
‘That depends …’
‘I don’t know what the situation really is in the Federal Republic but from what we’re told here, it seems ex- Nazis now run the place. Maybe the East would be safer …’
Viktor snorted. ‘It’s not much better there, I can tell you! You’re thinking too far ahead Möller. Your story...’
Viktor removed his leather notebook from his jacket pocket and sharpened his pencil with a knife. For the next two hours, Carsten Möller told him his story. Viktor stopped him on more than one occasion so he could re-sharpen his pencil.
Möller told of how he’d joined the SS at the age of 17, and soon after had been taken to a remote house in the countryside near Magdeburg, along with a dozen or so SS recruits of a similar age. The one thing they had in common was a fluency in English, which was crucial to their mission. He described how, after their training, they would be attached to units with the eventual aim of being taken prisoner by the British or Americans and brought to Britain as prisoners. He provided details about their training, and the brutality of some of the things they were required to do shocked Viktor.
Möller’s story ended with an account of how he was captured. The remains of his unit had been scooped up by the Americans, and he thought everything was going to plan, but then Leipzig was allocated to the Soviet zone and he found himself a prisoner of the wrong Allies. His story then stopped abruptly, and the young German broke down, sobbing uncontrollably for a few minutes. Viktor said nothing. He was more than familiar with this emotion: the relief after someone had unburdened themselves of a story which had haunted them for so long.
Viktor leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes against the harsh light of the cell. Since 1945 he had interrogated thousands of Nazi prisoners, some of them for just a few minutes, others for days at a time. What they had to say tended to blur into one endless stream of professed innocence and self-pity. But sometimes, a small line or fact from a story struck a chord or triggered a memory from something he had heard before. As Möller’s sobs receded, Viktor realised that the story of young, English-speaking SS officers deliberately looking to be captured was similar to something he had heard before – a few years previously, in the prison at Gdansk, in a room not unlike this one. It had been told to him by another Nazi officer, this one just days away from his execution. Viktor patted Möller’s knee in a friendly manner. ‘You are correct to share your story. If it makes you feel any easier, you can be repatriated to the East, if you express a preference for being sent there. Not many do, mind you. Tell me though: can you remember the names of any of the other recruits who gathered at Magdeburg?’
Carsten Möller took the handkerchief Viktor offered him, and composed himself. ‘I don’t remember all of them, by any means,’ he said. ‘There was an Arnold and a Lothar. I remember the names of the two I shared a room with: Konrad Hartmann and Mathias Hahn. But the one I remember best was Wilhelm Richter.’
Viktor said nothing as he wrote in his notebook. ‘Can you repeat the last name please?’
‘Wilhelm Richter.’
‘And you said you remember him best … why is
that?’
Carsten Möller was quiet for a few moments. ‘Since I joined the SS five years ago I have encountered many evil people. But Richter is the most evil person I have ever known.’
***
‘I beg your pardon?’ The atmosphere in the room in the MVD headquarters on Zhitnaya Street had suddenly changed. Viktor knew how to handle his superiors when they turned on him. He made sure he sounded confident and aggrieved, and addressed his remarks at Klimentov, who had just spoken to him.
‘You heard me Krasotkin, I said: what the fuck are you up to?’
‘You’ll have to be more specific than that.’
Ponomarenko and the other two shifted uncomfortably in their seats as Klimentov slammed his fist on the table. ‘Don’t be insolent Krasotkin: you’re not half as indispensable as you’d like to think.’
‘I’ve been interrogating Nazis for the past four years, day in and day out. I doubt I’ve had more than ten days off in that time. I have never,’ his voice was louder now, ‘had either my competence or my loyalty questioned, comrade.’
‘No-one is questioning your loyalty …’ Ponomarenko’s words were cut short as Klimentov placed a hand on his arm.
‘I’m not questioning your loyalty; I’m questioning your … judgement. This prisoner you’ve been enquiring about …’
‘Which one? There are thousands!’
‘Wilhelm Richter.’ This came from the man at the end of the table, the man Viktor had not met before. He spoke with an authority that suggested he was senior even to Klimentov.
Viktor made a good show of pretending he was struggling to recall that particular name.
‘Come on Krasotkin,’ said the man. ‘You’ve been asking about Richter for the past couple of months, checking records and asking around the camps.’
‘Him, yes… his name came up in an interrogation. He may have committed a war crime. I was checking the story out. That’s my job.’
‘Well,’ said the same man, ‘you can forget about him. His name came up before and he was investigated. Don’t waste your time.’
‘In any case, Richter’s dead. He was held at a camp near Perm where he died of typhus.’ Klimentov was beginning to get up as he spoke. ‘Just keep your head down, stick to your job and forget about Richter, understand?’
‘I understand. One question though: when did Richter die?’
Klimentov stared at Viktor, his eyes filled with indignation. He turned to Ponomarenko who shrugged his shoulders. No idea. The good-looking man with the suit which hadn’t been made in a factory replied quietly.
‘1947.’
For just a brief moment Viktor was aware his reaction betrayed his shock, as he gripped the side of the chair and he started to perspire.
Chapter 2
Frankfurt and Bonn, West Germany
1969
The priest had some difficulty finding the correct ward. The University Hospital – Uni-Klinik, as everyone called it – was so vast that even staff who’d worked there for many years struggled to find their way around.
The doctor was young, almost as young as the priest. It took a while for them to find an unoccupied room. ‘It is a most unusual situation Father … I’m sorry, I should have remembered your name …’
‘Lehmann. Carl Lehmann. Father Lehmann.’
‘Dr Manfred Berger. Let me explain the situation, Father Lehmann. Bernhard Krause …’ the doctor had opened a file in front of him and removed a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket. ‘Bernhard Krause is forty-two years of age and works as a clerk with a law firm here in Frankfurt. He is not known to have had any previous medical problems apart from a bad leg: according to an x-ray his ankle was broken many years ago but was almost certainly not re-set properly at the time. As a consequence, by the time the break healed, the leg was deformed. We asked him about it, but he would not discuss it. He has been an in-patient here for three weeks. He was admitted with advanced bone cancer which has metastasised extensively. Apparently he kept his symptoms to himself for some time before he finally went to his doctor, which was only recently. He must have suffered considerably. Of course, his condition is incurable: I would be surprised if he lasted another month. He must be a very tough and resolute man to have survived this long.
‘Herr Krause has had no visitors since he’s been here, and says he has no family. He is all alone. All we can do is ensure he’s as comfortable as possible, and he is unfortunately in a lot of pain – but he won’t let us give him proper pain relief. He is absolutely insistent we don’t give him morphine or anything else. I don’t know why. Maybe because of his condition, he doesn’t trust us. A serious and painful physical illness will sometimes trigger psychotic features, like paranoia. Could you try to persuade him, perhaps?’
‘I can try, but if you haven’t been able to …’
‘He is an unusual patient. Very private, and although he behaves properly, he clearly does not trust anyone. Even with you – you are aware of the situation?’
‘I understand there is something about him not wanting to see any of the other chaplains?’
‘Oh, he saw plenty of the other chaplains alright, but none of them were good enough for him, I don’t know why. He saw the Lutheran chaplain, a couple of Evangelicals and even your senior Catholic priest here, Father Roth. But he wouldn’t talk to any of them. He said they were all too old, and asked me to find someone under thirty. He was quite insistent, and as he was getting so distressed about it I felt I had to do what I could.’
‘Why do you think he’s so insistent?’
‘Who knows, but it was the same with me: he didn’t want to be treated by one of the older doctors. One of my colleagues said he had come across this before, especially in patients of this age, around their early forties. He no doubt fought in the war. Maybe that’s something to do with it: he possibly associates people over the age of forty with the war, and so doesn’t trust them. That could also be the reason he is so reluctant to take morphine. Some men of that age are terrified that it will make them disinhibited, and they’ll get themselves into trouble on their deathbeds. So they won’t take the one drug that could help. As a consequence, they die painful deaths. Maybe they think that’s what they deserve.’
***
Everything in the room appeared to be a different version of grey: the floor a shiny dark grey, the walls a light, speckled grey, the blinds a dirty grey and the blankets on the bed bluish grey. Greyest of all was the man propped up in the bed, under the bluish grey blankets. Beneath a thick mop of untidy silver-grey hair was the face of a man looking considerably older than his forty-two years, his pallor distinctly sickly, skin pulled painfully tight over his skull.
The priest tiptoed towards the chair by the window. The patient appeared to be fast asleep, his body not stirring. He was propped up on a number of large pillows.
‘You are the chaplain?’ The man’s voice was hoarse. His head had lolled in the priest’s direction and he was looking at him through grey blue eyes, the only part of him which appeared to be more alive than dead. ‘You will need to come closer. Even my hearing is affected now.’ A white hand slowly waved him over. ‘Come even closer.’ This time the long white hand beckoned him to bend down. ‘Tell me your name and your age.’
‘My name is Father Lehmann. I’m a Roman Catholic chaplain here at the Uni-Klinik. I am twenty-eight years old.’
‘So what year were you born?’
‘1941. Here in Frankfurt.’
The man in the bed furrowed his brow, trying to work out whether the priest had given the correct age. ‘I am not a religious man, Father. I cannot remember the last time I went inside a church. I don’t even believe in God.’
‘I quite understand, for many people a time like this …’
‘I am dying,’ interrupted the man. ‘They try to keep me comfortable. I sleep and I think and I stare out of the window and then I sleep again. I am in a waiting room.’
The priest followed the old man’s gaze out of
the window, and for a moment they both watched a long black barge heading slowly north through the brown waters of the Main.
‘You know what is happening in here?’
Father Lehmann shook his head, unsure where ‘in here’ was. Did Krause mean inside his head? Krause raised a shaking arm and pointed straight ahead of him. At the same time a long tongue, quite grey in colour, emerged from his mouth to lick his lips, the end of it curving to rest on his top lip for a while. The shaking arm was still pointing at the wall.
‘I'll tell you what is happening in here, Father. Every time I go to sleep, the walls close in a little. Not by very much, just a few centimetres each time, but I know it is happening. Eventually, they will close in on me completely and I will be gone.’
Outside the window was the sound of a long, muffled hoot from the barge. A trolley rattled past in the corridor, squeaking loudly. The priest ran a finger under his tight collar. The temperature in the room was now almost unbearable and he was beginning to feel light-headed: it was early August but the heating was on.
Krause had sunk back in the pillow, his arm returned to his side. There was a long silence, during which the patient closed his eyes once more. Father Lehmann looked round the room and could appreciate what Krause meant. In the short time he had been in the room, it did appear to have become smaller. ‘Are you in any pain?’
‘Some, but nothing they cannot look after. They want to give me morphine, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked you to persuade me to take it.’
‘If it helps you should …’
‘But I don’t need it!’ For the first time his voice rose above a loud whisper. ‘I’d fall asleep and never wake up. Or rather, if I did wake up, I wouldn’t realise it. So I won’t take it. Now, I want you to listen carefully. I want to tell you the real reason I asked you to come along. In the cupboard over there are a few possessions of mine, Father. Would you please go and bring over the briefcase?’
The wardrobe contained a few items of clothing which would never be worn again, and behind a pair of highly-polished black shoes was a scuffed leather briefcase, which Father Lehmann brought over to the bed. With some difficulty, the patient hauled himself into a more upright position and removed a large bundle from the case, wrapped in a white plastic bag and heavily sealed with strips of shiny brown tape. Attached to the front of the bundle was a white envelope with an address on it. Exhausted by the effort, he sank back into the pillows, clutching the bundle to his chest. He took a minute or two to regain his breath.