by Chris Petit
Morgen decided the two thugs must be about level with him on the far side of the road, how high up he couldn’t tell. The hill dropped into a fold and rose again even more steeply. It was all trees, with the occasional rocky outcrop and Morgen supposed they had taken up a position on one, giving them a field of fire.
Fegelein had decided to pause. He leaned forward in his saddle looking for all the world as if he were passing the time of day with Schlegel. Morgen could see the smoke from his cigarette hanging in the still air.
*
Fegelein said, ‘Our two friends up on the hill developed a real taste for it. The fat one trampled down people at execution sites until his trousers were filled with blood. The other one made a Jew wait until last after he had asked to be shot first. Burning churches with people inside was one of their specialities, after complaints that the armoury budget was being exceeded. It was all pretty much make and match, didn’t you find?’
Fegelein looked at Schlegel expectantly. ‘I read your file. Einsatzgruppen B.’
Schlegel’s then-boss, Arthur Nebe, had taken a squad of mainly police reservists east for what they were told would be general policing duties behind the front line. The first corpses they saw were three German airmen who had been barbecued alive. Filmed evidence showed a civilian enemy that was cunning, relentless and given to cutting out and eating the liver of any enemy.
Schlegel was there technically as a liaison officer. Under the guise of anti-partisan duties, villages were rounded up, marched off, made to dig their graves, lined up and shot. Schlegel had gone into the field to see the job was being done in the correct military manner. The shooters complained about what a tough job they had. A shrink brought in for general wellbeing told Schlegel that the trick was to normalise the process. For the perpetrators, the shrink had meant. There was nothing normal for those on the receiving end. Schlegel had walked on corpses, among geysers of blood, reloading with shaking hands. His hair hadn’t been white then.
Well, his turn now. Emil Maurice had told him they had given Anton Schlegel a sporting chance, letting him run for it. He tried to imagine running and stumbling, whipped by branches, wondering if the mind froze or whether there was coherence to the terror. Running from and running to death, he thought. What if he ran now, would they shoot him down or would Fegelein display his fancy horsemanship to corral him?
‘Didn’t exactly distinguish yourself,’ said Fegelein. ‘Mental fatigue, was it? Sent home, diddums.’
Schlegel had had no stomach for witnessing such killing. A burning shame judged him not tough enough when others were. The memory, suppressed for so long, blossomed like blood in water.
*
Morgen decided to break cover and go down and negotiate when he heard a whistling – not one of the previous blasts, but the common or garden whistling of someone wandering down a path above him, which joined the road just past where he was standing. It looked like a patrol guard coming off duty. Slung rifle. He stopped and lit up. Morgen walked back, trying to look casual. The guard was little more than a kid. Morgen held up a cigarette for a light. ‘No matches.’
The man’s uniform gave him the air of a forest ranger, apart from the usual insignia. He wore short boots with cleats. He seemed grateful for the interruption.
‘What’s going on?’ He spoke with a thick country accent.
‘Target practice.’
The boy patted his pockets and a light was produced. They looked each other in the eye as the flame took hold. Morgen muttered thanks and said, ‘I need to borrow your rifle.’
The boy appeared confused by that, enough for Morgen to grab his neck and knee him hard in the groin. As he jackknifed, Morgen drove his knee into his face. The boy sat down heavily and Morgen kicked his head, thinking how he had never been any good at close combat training. At least the poor devil was out cold. His nose looked broken.
Morgen used the boy’s belt to strap his arms behind his back, removed his boots and threw them away. Then he took off the socks and stuffed them in the boy’s mouth, relieved him of his rifle and ammunition pouch, thought about the pistol and took that too.
*
Schlegel saw Morgen hare across the road just as Fegelein started to turn, leaving him no choice but to lunge to prevent Fegelein from seeing Morgen. Fegelein’s holster flap was undone and Schlegel grabbed for it an act of defiance and stupidity in equal measure. Fegelein easily manoeuvred himself out of trouble as Schlegel realised he should have grabbed the man’s stirrup and up-ended him.
Fegelein appeared pleased by Schlegel’s initiative. ‘Always better when they put on a bit of a fight or it’s like shooting fish in a barrel.’
Fegelein remained elegant and in command, the snivelling of the previous night unimaginable. He said, ‘Let’s play a game while we’re waiting. It’s called “Do they run or not?”. Here’s a clue: they all run in the end.’
Schlegel watched Fegelein’s departing back rise and fall as he trotted away. He stood his ground, knowing if he made a run for it the thugs would shoot him down before he reached the trees. He supposed Morgen’s arrival offered a slither of hope but Morgen was outgunned and did he even have a weapon?
Fegelein turned and spurred his horse into a canter then a full gallop. Schlegel stood thinking about other deaths to distract from his own. Geli Raubal’s, still a mystery. The agent Busl picked up by the two thugs now on the hillside. Did they swing him – one, two, three – for greater momentum? Then the split-second illusion of flight before gravity did its job. The same with Frau Busl and Gerda, flying through the air. With Gerda they had probably swept in, didn’t even stop to ask, picked her up and chucked her out. Schlegel thought of the single shoe of the dead nurse, lying in the cellar. Again the two thugs, he was certain. It was what they did. And then there was the man falling from the roof of the burning clinic, which Schlegel now took as a sign of his own death foretold.
Given the choice, he would jump, for that moment’s illusion of freedom, falling through time and space.
The ground shook from the charging horse. Fegelein was low in the saddle, sabre extended. Schlegel stood transfixed by the speed and momentum of the horse until it was nearly upon him and he snapped. Fegelein was right: they all run in the end.
Schlegel fled in blind panic. All he could hear was the din of hooves and Fegelein’s whoops, then the sear of pain across his back as Fegelein whacked him with the sabre. As he fell he caught a glimpse of Fegelein’s face suffused with pleasure at the memory of killing orgies.
Fegelein reared the horse so it danced on its hind legs and the front hooves kicked at Schlegel’s face.
*
Morgen ran heedless, praying the trees provided enough cover for him not to be seen. There was no time for stealth. His fieldcraft was almost as poor as his range shooting. From the edge of the trees he had a view of Fegelein and Schlegel. He watched Fegelein repeat his charge. Schlegel held his ground until the last second and as he turned to run he appeared to be trampled underfoot.
Shooting an SS General was out of the question, though Morgen had to think twice about that as he pushed up the steeper incline, starting to panic because he could find no break in the trees. He was sweating hard. Shafts of sunlight started to penetrate the canopy as the wood started to thin and the ground, until then a bed of pine needles, became rockier. A brighter patch to Morgen’s left suggested a clearing. He moved towards it and found a knoll looking back across the valley with a view of the road. Morgen crawled on his stomach to an outcrop of rock and scanned the trees opposite but saw nothing in the way of any obvious clearing.
Down below, Fegelein reverted to his previous routine, setting Schlegel up as a target. A repeat of the single blast, answered twice, followed by the shot. Morgen saw the bullet kick up in front of Schlegel, getting closer.
*
Schlegel stared dumbly at the spot where the bullet had just hit, thinking from Fegelein’s dreamy look that he was moving in for the kill. Miraculously, he h
ad avoided getting kicked by the horse when he went down. At least he had lost the stupid Führer cap, which lay crushed after being trampled on.
He suspected the two thugs had been told not to finish him off, allowing Fegelein the pleasure of toying. No flinch, next time, Schlegel told himself. He eyed Fegelein’s stirrup, thinking if the man moved any closer he would be near enough to grab. The stirrup came almost within reach. Fegelein and his horse were between him and the guns on the hill, not allowing them a shot. Now or never, Schlegel thought. As he was about to grab the stirrup Fegelein shook his boot free and shoved it hard into Schlegel’s chest, controlled his horse with a skittering sideways movement, knocking Schlegel off balance, and he went down again and lay staring up at the huge breathing belly of the horse, which stood perfectly still over him, under the control of its master.
Schlegel rolled out from under the horse and started to walk away. Let them shoot him in the back. He thought of his father and cursed him, wishing neither of them had been born.
*
Morgen saw what he had missed before. A sentry or hunting platform among the trees, further down than he had been looking, distance about 1o0 metres. The platform was open. The fat one was sitting with legs dangling over the edge, his rifle across his knees. The other one was lounging behind him. They were passing a bottle.
Fegelein was using the horse to herd Schlegel back into position. Fegelein now appeared to act with deadly intent and Morgen knew time was running out. Schlegel’s spirit looked to have been been broken but then he appeared to rally and could be seen arguing with Fegelein. Fegelein had briefly dismounted to retrieve the battered Führer cap and Schlegel was refusing to wear it. The squabble concluded with Schlegel throwing the cap aside. Morgen was sure such a show of disrespect meant Schlegel was done for.
Fegelein turned away. What Morgen saw next made no sense: Schlegel standing there with what, of all things, looked like a book, rapidly flicking through it until something fell out, which he bent down to retrieve.
*
Of course, thought Schlegel, stuffing book and paper back in his pocket as Fegelein stopped and turned. More hiding in plain sight: the elusive confession, hidden in the book, secreted in the very lair of the beast. He knew it could be his lifeline, offered to Fegelein in a repeat of Anton’s Schlegel’s barter with Emil Maurice – in a desperate attempt to avoid the inevitable.
He weighed the odds and resolved to make no deal with Fegelein. With luck, the secret would die with him, thwarting everyone’s intentions – a hollow triumph but a small victory nevertheless.
*
Morgen rapidly familiarised himself with the rifle. Standard issue, same as in Russia. Reliable if unspectacular. Bolt action. He checked the magazine: full. Every sound seemed magnified. He took up a shooting position on his front, legs spread, left arm wrapped through the rifle sling to steady the aim, and looked down the barrel. The two men suddenly seemed further away, exact distance hard to judge. Seventy-five? A hundred? A hundred and twenty? He set the sight at a hundred, remembering the trigger had a lot of give. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fegelein raise his arm and the fat one took up position, using the roof post of the platform to support his aim.
Fegelein blew three blasts and Morgen, thinking of the previous single blasts, took it as a signal to aim to kill. Squeeze, don’t snatch, he reminded himself as the fat one whistled back his three peeps, and settled over his rifle, while his companion signalled their readiness with his three blasts. What an absurd rigmarole, thought Morgen, as he applied pressure to the trigger, deciding it was probably what they had done when rounding up villages: cheap whistles, with the sound able to carry over long distances; the two thugs were bound to have been part of Fegelein’s band of killers. The current show was no doubt a version of the lethal games played over there.
The rifle kicked hard against Morgen’s shoulder. The report rang in his ears and acrid cordite filled his nostrils. He released the bolt to eject the shell, rammed it shut and sighted again. The two men looked frozen in surprise. Morgen fired again, aiming lower, and saw the red starburst as the fat man flopped back. The thin one, exposed on the open platform, had nowhere to hide. He was at the top of the ladder scrambling down when Morgen got him in his sights. He aimed allowing for the man’s descent, fired and saw his target swing back, one handed, his free arm raised like he was acknowledging applause, still grabbing on until he regained his grip and continued to fumble his way down. Sitting duck, thought Morgen: hope you’re enjoying this. The next shot blasted the man backwards; it was like watching a swallow dive in reverse. The fat one was struggling to sit up, his squeals resembling those of a stuck pig, carrying across the valley. Morgen looked across to Fegelein and Schlegel. Schlegel was still standing and Fegelein was staring at a shoeless man hobbling down the road – the young soldier from whom he had stolen the rifle and pistol. Morgen wondered whether to take another shot at the fat man, or indeed Fegelein.
*
Schlegel looked like a ghost of himself, but seemed to be holding steady, Morgen thought as he joined them, his rifle over his shoulder. Contrary to all expectation, Fegelein seemed in tremendous good spirits as he dismounted and produced a carrot for his horse, offering it in the flat of his palm. The horse chomped gratefully and whinnied.
Fegelein cocked his ear at the fat man’s bellows and said to Morgen, ‘Well, you have proved the point of the exercise, not quite how I had in mind. Any idea why this man is bootless?’
Morgen ignored the befuddled soldier and said, ‘I found this,’ handing the rifle to Fegelein. ‘And this,’ passing over the pistol.
Fegelein chucked them to the soldier, who dropped the rifle and caught the pistol.
‘Find your boots, boy,’ Fegelein ordered. ‘Dereliction of duty is the least of your worries. Are you drunk?’
The boy shook his head.
‘Most of them are,’ Fegelein announced. ‘Fuck-all else to do, sitting around in guard rooms waiting for nobody to come.’
Fegelein was all bonhomie and concern, asking Schlegel, ‘Are you all right?’ placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Necessary exercise. Good job.’
No one mentioned Fegelein’s flashback to his days clearing marshes and sabre charges.
Fegelein accompanied them back leading his horse. Morgen watched him recalculating the odds.
‘Back to Berlin?’ Fegelein eventually asked.
‘With your permission,’ Morgen replied not quite sarcastically.
‘I can arrange for us to take the Führer’s private train. A treat.’
‘Us!’ thought Morgen.
‘Who exactly did you shoot, do you know?’ asked Fegelein.
Morgen thought whoever they were, in the end they were probably as disposable as those they disposed of.
‘To ex-cooks, as it happens,’ Fegelein went on with a laugh. ‘Now here’s the thing. Assaulting a soldier, stealing army property. Shooting two servants of government, where does that leave you?’
‘You tell me,’ thought Morgen, suspecting what was coming.
‘Those two in the woods knew too much anyway for their own good. I can probably write them off. Soldier boy is neither here nor there. Do you see what I am saying?’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘Slate clean. You owe me. How do you spell “indebted”?’
Got the better of again, thought Morgen bitterly. He looked back at Schlegel, stumbling like he had just walked all the way back from Russia.
The Berghof came into sight.
Fegelein looked up and said, ‘There’s Tieck waiting.’
ENDGAME
49
The Führer express sped its way through the night, unhindered by the delays to regular transport, but it was very much a budget version; Fegelein had had to hide his disappointment at only three coaches – a flak wagon, radio and baggage cars. On-board staff consisted of a radio operator, a couple of soldiers to mount the ack-ack guns and a train manager.
Th
e train had departed from the local station where it was kept in its own special section, allowing for private entry. Fräulein Braun had announced she would remain at the Berghof with her sister. If she was curious about the morning’s gunfire or the whereabouts of the two thugs she made no reference to either, or to the state of the returning party, making it plain that such goings on were beneath her and typical of her duplicitous brother-in-law, whom she now treated with scarcely veiled contempt. Emil Maurice had briefly reappeared to get out as quickly as he could, driving back to Munich, leaving the rest to assemble on the empty station platform with none of them saying a word to each other. Morgen kept his own council. Schlegel remained in his shell. Tieck held himself apart. Anna Huber gravitated towards Fegelein, perhaps not done with him yet, while Fegelein, who was the only one who had managed a change of clothes, did his best to keep a cheerful face but had the shifty look of one who had overplayed his hand. He made a point of being seen to take charge, discussing sleeping arrangements with the train manager, who in turn seemed to make a point of being unusually polite to Anna Huber.
*
Morgen was given a sergeant’s compartment in the flak wagon and Schlegel, who insisted on being left alone, put in the other ranks’ room. On his return to the Berghof, he had turned his back on Tieck. Morgen had had to order Tieck, who was behaving crassly, to back down and give Schlegel time as he was in shock.