The Fugitive

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Brandy and chess, giggling and horseplay! They have become soft and childish like the Brazilians, Erick thought bitterly as he went along the balcony to his room. Little Erick, eh? We shall see!

  Chapter 4

  They were standing about the room drinking coffee and speaking desultorily when Erick entered the next morning. His uncle introduced him to each in turn, and they all shook hands silently, wonderingly, diffident in the presence of a man they knew held office in the Third Reich of Hitler. The chairs and couch had been drawn up to form a rough semicircle about the fireplace, and Erick placed himself with his back to the mantel, waiting silently and aloofly while they quietly seated themselves. He stood erect and calm, sure of himself and watched them coldly as they seated themselves. Then, suddenly flinging his hand in their faces, he snapped, “Heil Hitler!”

  There was a moment of startled silence, then “Heil Hitler!” loudly and enthusiastically from Gunther and Strauss; a further pause and a more subdued “Heil Hitler” from Gerhmann and Lange. A snort from Goetz. Silence from the old man von Roesler, and from Riepert, the lumberman from Parana. Erick smiled grimly to himself as he filed the reaction of each in his sharp memory. He waited until the renewed shuffling had again subsided before beginning to speak.

  “Gentlemen. Citizens of the Third Reich. You are all aware, I am sure, of the situation that exists today in the homeland. The Fuhrer has made exceptional efforts to avoid war, and these efforts, so far, have been successful. But our enemies are not satisfied to sallow this peaceful situation to endure.

  “German nationals, who have played the greatest part in the development of every country in the world, are being persecuted and made to suffer today for no reason other than the fact that they are German! This is the truth, gentlemen; the international conspiracy of Jews and so-called Christian Democrats will not be satisfied until every man, woman, and child in the Reich is driven into starvation and despair!”

  He paused and studied the faces before him. Goetz ways eyeing him coldly, almost sardonically; his uncle sat huddled in one corner, blankly studying his veined hands. Gunther was leaning forward excitedly, drinking in the words; Strauss was vigorously nodding his head. The tension had disappeared from the faces of Lange and Gehrmann; they looked interested. Riepert was staring out of the window, his face disclosing nothing.

  “Gentlemen. In this situation, to be blunt, the Fatherland calls upon all of its loyal sons and daughters in all parts of the world for support. These hostile elements that surround us on all sides have long taken advantage of our weakness, of our lack of organization, of our sincere desire for peace. As Germans we are beginning to once again raise our heads under the inspired leadership of our beloved Fuhrer; we are throwing off the shame of the past, we are beginning once again to stand on our feet. But these elements will not leave us in peace! It is only a question of time until they change their attacks from verbal and economic ones to actual intervention in the internal affairs of the Reich!” He eyed them all coldly, conviction in every line of his taut body. “And when that time comes, they will be smashed down; taught that we Germans also have a right to live, and to grow, and to fulfill the destiny of the Third Reich!”

  His voice had risen despite himself; he found himself pounding the stone mantelpiece for emphasis. A pity, an inner voice whispered, to waste this oratory in a farmhouse in this backward place, but then didn’t the Fuhrer himself start in a Brauhaus in Munich? There was an embarrassed shifting of bodies, but no one spoke.

  “Gentlemen. We cannot wait for the below to fall before preparing ourselves for it. Even as I come today to Brazil, others have gone to Argentina, to Sweden, to Canada, to the United States; to all of the countries that owe so much to their German population, and who yet hold us down so much. What is the answer? The answer is that we must organize ourselves; organize into Bunds. Prepare ourselves for the day when the Reich will be forced to defend itself on the field of battle against these enemies!”

  There was a sudden movement as Goetz heaved himself to his feet. He stood towering over the silent group, eyeing them with cold disgust; then his huge head swung toward Erick. “Enough is enough,” he said, his big fists clenching and unclenching. “You are mad! You and your crazy Schicklgruber! You come here to Brazil to tell us about Germans suffering in other countries. When have you ever seen Germans suffering in other countries? What do you know about how Germans live in other countries? When have you ever been out of Germany?” His face was reddening with his growing anger. “To take a bicycle trip to Vienna? To go visit the whorehouses of Paris?” He snorted. “You talk of suffering! Suffering!” He looked about the room.

  “Everyone in this room today can thank Brazil for everything he has!”

  “Goetz, Goetz!” cried Gunther, his little body shaking with conviction as with an ague. “He’s right! It’s changing! He’s right! They are talking now of even forbidding the teaching of German in our schools in Santa Catarina!”

  “It gets harder each day to import from the Fatherland,” interposed Strauss sullenly. “The verdammt Americans get preferential treatment.”

  “Why?” Goetz roared, his patience snapping. “Why? What does Germany have to export? Guns? Airplanes? Tanks?” He turned fuming to the silent waiting figure of Erick, watching this display with icy calm from the fireplace. “Ask our young friend here, he was still wet behind the ears when I left Germany. Ask him what Germany has to export! Hate? Poison? Little men like this—this…” Words failed him. He pushed to the door, seething. “My God, but you are fools! Von Roesler, I go! You will pardon me if I do this to your hospitality, for you are an old friend and I do not hold this against you, but this is too much! For this idiocy I drove two days, yet!” They heard his feet go pounding down the stairway. Riepert rose to his feet.

  “I think I also go,” he said quietly. “I am over twenty years in Brazil. I think maybe you exaggerate, however. Von Roesler, good day.” He nodded stiffly to the others and left the room. The grinding of the Ford’s starter came from below.

  “And now,” said Erick softly in the shocked silence that had fallen, “are there more to leave? Does the Reich have more traitors in this room?” No one answered. He studied their faces, studiously avoiding his uncle’s look of misery, but somehow strengthened by it. “You are all sure? You have no doubts?” His eyes flashed from one to the other; they all stared back in waiting silence. “No? Then let us get to work!” He seated himself at the table and drew his briefcase toward him. “The plans are all drawn. We shall discuss them. Actually, the situation is not very different between the different countries….” The others moved around him as he spread his papers upon the table top and continued to talk.

  This was the young Captain Erick von Roesler of the Sicherheitsdienst, provisionally assigned by the SD as Gauleiter-to-be for the country of Brazil, in South America, in the month of June, in the year of 1939.

  Chapter 5

  When the patience of the leaders of the Third Reich could no longer tolerate the constant attacks to which they were viciously and unfairly subjected, they established their first line of defense in Poland. This was in September of 1939. This proved so successful that further defense lines were later established even more to the east.

  In those early days, the assignments given to Gauleiters-tobe in the countries-defended-as-yet-not were many and varied. Captain Erick von Roesler, his voluminous notes on Brazil largely unread and buried in the vast archives of some obscure bureau of the SD, was first assigned to Lithuania as assistant to the Gauleiter of Riga. His enthusiasm in this first opportunity to prove to the Führer as well as to his superiors his complete devotion to the sacred cause eventually led even the Gauleiter of Riga himself to complain directly to Rosenberg. “To have buried alive seriously wounded people,” ran the astonishing report, “who then worked their way out of the graves again, is such extreme beastliness that it should be reported to the Führer and Reichsmarschall….” Since the Gauleiter of Riga merely pro
ved in this purposeless complaint to be either extremely naive or poorly indoctrinated, von Roesler earned no reprimand. Instead, he was awarded the Iron Cross and his military grade raised to major. However, in the interests of peace-the-family-in, which at that stage of the military effort was easily afforded, he was reassigned and told to report directly to Reichsminister Saukel in Paris.

  His new post required him to concentrate on the recruitment of foreign workers into the slave labor program. In this new assignment, von Roesler was again swept with an excess of enthusiasm which bore no relationship to the purposes of the program; or possibly he felt that the impressing of labor was an end in itself. At any rate, the result was the same. Since dead slaves do no work, he found himself once again reassigned. This time there was no promotion attached.

  His new position was more logical; he found himself posted to Dachau, where his activities, rather than causing unfavorable comment, aided his commendation record. Von Roesler had finally found his forte. In quick succession, Auschwitz saw him, and Birkenau. To his surprise, he discovered that he had a certain talent for organization, combined to some extent with a technical ability almost bordering on engineering. Through his efforts he was able to increase the daily output of the cremation ovens spectacularly; even the technicians whose function it was to see to the proper operation of the ovens had to admit that von Roesler played no small part in the success of the extermination program.

  But it was actually not until early in 1943 that he really felt settled. This was when his service was finally recognized, and he was transferred on a permanent basis to the longestablished camp at Buchenwald. The years had given him maturity; victims capable of working were no longer whipped into the false showers; those who could walk and bend over were saved for the factories of Weimar, their place in the daily file to the ovens taken by the utterly decrepit, or the women too weak to contribute, or the useless children. His title in his new position was Assistant to the Obergrüppenführer, and it also carried a promotion to the level of colonel.

  The mental development of Erick von Roesler in these years might be interesting to study, were it unfortunately not so standard. The vital necessity for furthering the destiny of the Third Reich, which had manifested itself in the excesses of Lithuania, had turned in his months with Reichsminister Saukel to bitter resentment at his victims for having forced these very excesses. From this resentment to a state of active hatred was a short step. Hatred being a reason in itself, no feeling of guilt could, or ever did, accrue to his activities.

  His hatred had no particular focus. He hated all his enemies, but particularly he hated the Jews, because the ones he encountered at Buchenwald were German, and because they were not in the camp for sabotage or political acts against the Reich. He secretly considered du Waldeck and Koch weak and almost degenerate, for they seemed to kill and torture from pleasure, rather than from his more exalted hatred.

  Brazil seemed far away in those days of daily tasks, but von Roesler never forgot it. He kept a map of the vast country on his desk and in free moments would pore over it, tracing with his finger the tiny path that led from Santos, winding erratically along the coast to cut in to Itapave. He never ceased being amazed at the insignificance of what had been a full day’s journey, when compared with the great reaches of the country that dwarfed this minute part.

  The winning of the war having already been assured by the constant elimination of enemies, either in the bloody blitzkrieg battles to the east, or in the gas chambers, he often sat back at night and planned his future. Goetz! Without any doubt tainted by more than a little Jewish blood. And Riepert; not a common Jewish name, no; but certainly a Jew. Little Erick, eh? From his office he could see the huge prison yard, and the floodlights bathing the area in cold shadowlessness; he looked back in his memory to Dachau, and Ausehwitz, and Birkenau. Little Erick, eh? Hartzlandia would rise before him, the Berchtesgaden of his future. His foolish uncle was growing old, senile; imagine the old man inviting Jews to that meeting! And then, having invited them, imagine the old man feeling miserable because they left! Well, when the time came, the old man would pose no problem. Von Roesler’s fingers would stroke the warm wood of his pipe rhythmically, the sinuous twisting trails of smoke blending in the air with his lush dreams.

  All this, of course, was before the bombings. It was only at Hamburg, on that fateful night of August 3, 1943, that the first maggots of doubt ever entered his mind. The order had come crisply to the apartment of the Obergrüppenführer and had been routinely transferred to his office. A swift call to Weimar started a priority train on its way to the camp; within thirty minutes three hundred inmates had been brutally routed out of their tiered shelves, certain that their final hour had arrived. Von Roesler supervised the loading of the cattle cars personally, saw the last frightened animal beaten into withdrawal from the doors, the panels slammed into place and latched. He nodded to the signalman, who waved his red lantern and scrambled aboard to join him in the small coach at the rear.

  “What’s up?” asked the signalman cheerfully. He was not at all impressed by his companion’s uniform. In those days of the war, trainmen were as valuable as colonels.

  Von Roesler silenced him with a look, but for the first time he felt a twinge of uneasiness. It was quite unusual, this. It was the first time that inmates had been removed so far from camp as a work party. Usually they either left as part of the daily working units that went into Weimar to the factories or they left the camp for their last trip to some mass grave beyond the walls. This was very unusual.

  The sight of Hamburg, while the train was still fifteen miles away, was incredible. A wall of flame tapering upward into a twisting tower that reached higher than the eye could see, past the sky, farther than the mind could encompass; columns of smoke shot through with fiery red flares that appeared and disappeared, winding about fiercely through the black pillars, all and everything fighting madly to climb into that holocaust that raged higher and higher, wider and wider, over the city. As their train inched forward, they could hear the hungry roar of the firestorm; a rain of tiny debris pattered against the coach roof; through the window the wind could be heard, rushing insanely into that unbelievable vacuum. The train ground to a shuddering halt; von Roesler dropped to the ground and ran panting past the now silent cattle cars to stand by the engine, frozen with disbelief and horror.

  There, to the left, where the docks had stood, nothing but a solid wall of searing flame! And Hohelft, Barsbeck, Elmsbüttel, one gigantic and growing pyre! Harburg and the Borstelmannsweg section shooting howling fire to the skies! This could not be Hamburg! This mass of crackling, snarling, howling fire crazily twisting into the sky could not be Hamburg! It was impossible; one could not encompass the disaster. What had happened to the Luftwaffe? What had gone wrong with the vaunted radar guns? Hamburg, best-protected city in the Reich, in the world; Hamburg, whose civil defense was so developed, so famed, as to serve as the model for all cities of the Reich facing air attacks! It was impossible! Impossible! Who had failed? Fear, for the first time, came to Colonel Erick von Roesler.

  They worked in the smoking skeleton of what had once been Hamburg for one month. They damped down still-smoldering ash-choked blocks; they cleared rubble from streets that still smoked beneath their feet. Burned trucks and cars were pulled away and thrown into the growing rubbish piles that took the place of the once famed factories of Hamburg. The network of canals and waterways that spanned the city were dragged and cleared of the twisted bodies that choked them; shelters were opened and the ghastly melted things that had once been human bodies were shoveled into carts and taken to the long shallow mass graves dug by the inmates of Buchenwald. And through all the work and the horror and the sleepless nights, von Roesler’s hatred grew, satisfied by the gruesome sights that presented themselves daily for his inspection; but the fear grew, also, and the doubts.

  In the latter part of September they were replaced by groups from other camps; they returned to Buche
nwald. Seven inmates had died on the trip to Hamburg; forty-three from the fumes of opened shelters, or the gases trapped in the shambles of flooded basements and torn pipes. Eight had been shot while attempting to take advantage of the situation and escape; four had been shot when burns suffered in their duties prevented them from joining their working parties. Ten had died in the Hamburg barracks, reason unknown. One had fallen into a mass grave and stayed there. Twelve bodies had remained in the cattle cars upon their return. Erick von Roesler wrote up his report mechanically, his mind far away.

  The famous Luftwaffe had failed; the impenetrable defense of Hamburg had failed. He sat that night in his quarters, unconsciously listening for the terrifying soft roar of approaching airplanes, numbed. The map of Brazil remained folded in its usual place on his desk, his fingers stroking it absently. A word born of his need to escape the horror he had seen, to explain the fear that crowded him, grew in his mind: Betrayal! His mind studied the word and found it good; it satisfied his doubts and fed his hatred. Germany had been betrayed! He turned off his desk lamp and sat staring in the darkness, his ears pitched for the whisper of propellers in the distance; his delicate fingers stroking his warm pipe, his mind savoring the marvelous escape of that wonderful word. Betrayal!

  Chapter 6

  On June 6, 1944, at five P.M. London time, Allied planes and gliders sweeping low over Normandy dropped the first contingent of paratroopers on Contentin Peninsula, and the invasion of the German stronghold of Europe had begun. On June 7 the British took Bayeux; Carentan fell on June 13. United States troops captured Cherbourg on June 27. British-Canadians took Caen July 9; Falaise fell to the Canadians August 17. On August 25, French troops, supported by the American forces, entered Paris.