Volk

  But trouble had come from the other side: Kaltenbrunner had done his homework and traced down the far-flung agents Heydrich had sent out. Now Ernst had to report to the man personally, before being shipped to the front.

  Kaltenbrunner turned out to be a large man, with a body like that of a lumberjack. His face was angular, his neck thick, his chin square and his eyes small. His fingers were discolored, for he was a chain smoker. He spoke with a thick Austrian accent, and was missing several teeth, which hardly helped his appearance. He also drank excessively, Ernst learned. Yet it was evident that he had a fine analytical mind, and was fully as ruthless as Heydrich, without Heydrich’s cultured side. Heydrich could be subtle and even, according to Quality, charming; Kaltenbrunner would never be either.

  The interview was perfunctory. It seemed that Kaltenbrunner had wanted to meet Ernst merely so as to be able to recognize him thereafter. If he knew about Quality he clearly didn’t care; perhaps he intended simply to ship Ernst far away and let those left behind fend for themselves. It was an effective punishment for those who had had the temerity to support Heydrich. But he couldn’t stop Ernst from taking accrued leave time, when whatever unit he was in was not in a state of emergency. Ernst would return to help Quality in due course. He had to.

  He was sent to the General Kommissariat “White Russia,” well back from the front line. But it turned out to be a long train ride to Minsk, though endless snowy forests. Even when he managed to get leave time, it would require days to return to Berlin, assuming he could get transport. Ernst’s hope of returning within a month faded, and he was depressed.

  There were other officers traveling to this and other destinations. Time was on their hands, so they played cards and talked. Some of them had been on duty at the front, and from them Ernst received evil news. It seemed that the war was not going nearly as well as the Berlin newspapers had suggested. The initial victories of 1941 had been followed by a temporary setback in December, as the Russians counterattacked near Moscow and took advantage of the savage winter to force a retreat. When the weather eased in 1942 the German advance had resumed, but by the Führer’s directive not toward Moscow but to the south. Progress had been made, of course, but this was nevertheless troublesome, because the Russian capital, so near to capture, remained functioning. Now the Russians were organizing, and real trouble was developing. The great German Sixth Army was surrounded and under siege in Stalingrad, and the winter was taking its toll, as it had the prior year. “If only we had knocked out Moscow, the hub!” one officer exclaimed. “Headless, the Russians would have given up the fight. Now there is mischief we never should have had to face.”

  “Mischief?” Ernst inquired.

  Several others laughed. “You do not know of the partisans? Ragtag bands, but vicious. They roam the countryside, striking from hiding. Never do they stand up to fight like men, but they take many lives in their sneaky way. A man can never be sure he won’t get a bullet in his back.”

  Which accounted for why Kaltenbrunner had sent him here, instead of to the front line. He would be more likely to die dishonorably. What a contrast to his work in the Abwehr, and his nights with Quality. He was proceeding from relative Heaven to relative Hell. But he intended to survive, because he had to, to protect Quality. The thought of her alone in Berlin saddened him, but she could manage as long as he provided her money.

  At last the train reached Minsk, where Ernst was met by a driver who took him to Major General Curt von Gottberg’s unit. “Exactly what is occurring here?” Ernst inquired as the car moved along the snowy road.

  “Antipartisan action, sir,” the driver replied. “We have to clean them out, or they will clean us out.”

  “But surely there is not serious partisan activity this far behind the front line,” Ernst said, knowing better. “In Berlin, we were told that this area was secure.”

  “Sir, the truth is that we control the cities and towns, and they control the countryside. They are getting stronger every day. Of course that doesn’t get put into the Berlin newspapers.”

  So it was worse than he had feared. “But we came as liberators. We lifted the Communist yoke. They welcomed us.”

  “That they did, sir. At first. Then the Einsatzgruppen started in killing all the Jews and Gypsies any anyone else they chose not to like, and burning homes and fields and taking the food away, and that made for great recruitment for the partisans. Now we have a real problem.”

  “You don’t approve of the Führer’s policies?”

  “I didn’t say that, sir!” the man said quickly. “I just think that maybe if they had been a bit more subtle, the people wouldn’t be rebelling, and our life would be easier.”

  Soon enough Ernst verified the extent of the problem. No Germans went into the countryside alone; they were always in military units. Even in the city there were daily incidents, as terrorists set bombs and snipers fired at military vehicles. No one ever seemed to know anything about the activities, but it was obvious that the natives were harboring the partisans. This might as well have been enemy territory.

  The first significant artipartisan sweep in which Ernst participated was Operation Hornung. He went only as an observer, learning how it was done. “Things may not be quite as they are described in Berlin,” he was tersely advised.

  Indeed they were not. Ernst watched as the troops went out east of Minsk, surrounding the suspected area. There was the sound of firing, but very little obvious result. If there were partisans in the countryside, most of them must have managed to slip away before the cordon tightened. Only a few rifles were captured, and there were only five German casualties reported. But the men went through the houses, routing out their occupants, shooting any who tried to resist. These were called partisans, and in the course of the operation more than two thousand were “killed in action.”

  Many more were brought to a rendezvous for interrogation. They were lined up along the road, the men on one side, the women on the other. Then the translators went down the lines, addressing the women. “Point out all the men who do not belong in your village. If you do not, your own men will be killed.”

  The women tried to balk, to pretend that they did not know which men were which. “Then they all must be partisans,” the officer said. “We shall execute them all.”

  At that point the women, distraught, reconsidered, and began to point out the strangers. Ernst realized that similar scenes were being enacted in all the villages of this region. The assumption was that any strangers must be partisans. But what of men with legitimate business in the village? What of partisans who happened to live here? There was the risk of executing the wrong men.

  “Do you want to know the greatest irony?” another officer remarked to Ernst. “Most of those translators are Jews. Jews! We are using Jews to eliminate folk fighting for their homeland.”

  In due course a number of selected partisans were marched into a detention camp, and the other men, together with the women, were allowed to return to their homes. It was evident to Ernst that if those other men had not been partisans yesterday, they surely would be partisans tomorrow. Because almost any man would rather die fighting than be ignominiously executed just for being there.

  The next day they went through a similar process at another village, continuing the sweep. The collection of prisoners grew. And the effective recruitment of future partisans.

  After several days there were more than seven thousand prisoners. These were marched to a remote field and given spades and picks. They were required to dig large graves. Any who balked were beaten until they returned to work. The ground was hard, because of the winter cold, so the job took time, but no rest was allowed.

  Ernst was appalled at the callousness of it, but he could not protest. He was only here to observe. If he balked, he might be required to give the cruel orders.

  He looked at a group of soldiers who were seeming to have a party. They were drinking bottles of schnapps and vodka, and not even trying to conce
al it. There were other officers in sight, but they seemed to be paying no attention. Apparently the soldiers were allowed this astonishing privilege of getting drunk on duty. Yet they did not look happy. What was going on?

  When the graves were done, the partisans were forced to strip completely. There was snow on the ground, and they stood shivering violently, but were shown no mercy. They were required to stand facing the graves. Then the drunken soldiers came, carrying Schmeisser machine pistols. There were twelve of them.

  “Fire!”

  The pistols fired, in a crossfire pattern, and the bullets sprayed across the backs of the standing naked partisans. The partisans fell forward into their graves.

  Now Ernst understood. No one liked the task of executing prisoners. It helped to be drunk when doing it. The soldiers were encouraged to drink so that they could do it. Only a few were sober. Those would be the fanatical Nazis who were satisfied to slaughter the helpless. That was no improvement.

  Other soldiers took the spades and started filling in the dirt. There was a groan, and motion in the grave. One of the sober executioners walked across and used a carbine rifle to put a bullet through the head of the one who was incompletely dead.

  “This is barbaric!” Ernst muttered.

  “Not so,” the officer beside him replied. “Barbarism is when they do not put the bullets in the heads of the survivors before covering them over.”

  “Or when they shoot a pregnant woman in the womb and push her into the grave alive,” another added.

  Ernst assumed that they were trying to shock him, in a kind of initiation. Later he learned that such things did occur. He was sickened and disgusted. This was, of course, why he had been sent here. His body might or might not survive—but would his soul?

  • • •

  The anti-partisan effort continued. General Warlimont, the head of the National Defense Office, issued an order stating that populations rounded up by the firing of villages which harbored partisans were to be sent to concentration camps in Poland and Russia. This was in response to the liquidation of entire villages during the anti-partisan operations. It was supposed to have a moderating effect. Ernst had already achieved enough cynicism to doubt that this would be the case. Actually, this order made it possible for almost anyone in occupied territory to be sent to a camp.

  On March 18 there came a directive from the security office: “Generally speaking, no more children are to be shot.” This, too, was likely to have no more than a cosmetic effect on policy. Ernst no longer had any doubt why so many local folk became partisans; he would have become one too, had he been a Russian resident.

  Finally he was allowed leave time. He took the train for Germany, hoping that Quality remained in the Tiergarten room. It had been almost two months, far longer than he liked.

  She was there! She was startlingly lovely, after the physical and mental horrors he had seen. Perhaps it was her nature, for he knew that Quality would never be associated with the atrocities of the eastern front. He swept her into his arms and kissed her.

  “I have so much to tell thee,” she said.

  First they made love. Her body had filled out; she had not been going hungry. Yet her money should have run out. How had she managed?

  “Ernst, I hope thee will not be upset,” she said. “I am pregnant.”

  He lay beside her stunned. “Oh, Quality, in any other situation—”

  “I agree. I did not want to be in this condition. Yet it is thy doing, and thy baby within me, and I can not help but feel joy in that.”

  And he had just had sex with her, not knowing! “I should not have—”

  “I believe that love is healthy, at any time,” she said. “I very much wanted thine at this time. I apologize for this small deceit: I did not tell thee before, so thee would not feel restricted.”

  He had to accept it. But there was another question. “How have you managed? I was so afraid you would not have money.”

  “That is the other wonderful thing I must tell thee, Ernst, though I fear it will surprise thee and leave thee with mixed feelings.”

  “Nothing can surprise me or mix my feelings more than your pregnancy.”

  “I have a friend who has moved in with me, to share the expenses. When my money ran out, she used hers. She is the reason I am well, and not completely lonely in thine absence.”

  “A German friend?” he asked, amazed. “How can that be?”

  “She is thy friend Krista.”

  The bottom fell out of his insecure equilibrium. “Krista! But she would hate you!”

  “She tried to, but she did not succeed.”

  He looked at her. “I can appreciate how that is. But still—the resentment she must feel!”

  “She is a practical woman. She says that since I have taken her man, she may take mine. She has questioned me closely about Lane.”

  “Lane Dowling!” Ernst laughed. Then as he thought about it, it began to make insidious sense. Lane did have an eye for poise and beauty, and Krista had both in ample measure. If she had opportunity to be with him for any length of time, and privacy to show him parts of her body, he would certainly be interested. He would not be put off by her Gypsy ancestry; he would find it intriguing. Still, the thing was farfetched. “How would she meet him?”

  “If Germany loses the war, I will try to introduce her to him. Surely he will seek me, and if Krista is with me, I can do that much.”

  If Germany lost the war. Ernst had not allowed himself to think that thought before, but it was a prospect. The eastern front could at best be described as stagnant, and the German resources were being wasted fighting partisans. After what he had seen, he could no longer hope for German victory. The Russians might be barbarous, but they did not deliberately kill women and children.

  “Then perhaps it is a fair deal,” he said. “Lane is certainly a good man, and Krista is a good woman. Better than I had taken her for, since she has helped you.”

  “A good woman,” Quality agreed.

  Still, it was awkward when Krista returned. She remained beautiful, her hair still glisteningly fair. She concealed her surprise at seeing Ernst. It was evident that she still had feeling for him, but she made no attempt to impress him. She had accepted the change.

  Actually, it was good that Krista had come here, he realized. Quality needed more than money, now that she was pregnant. Krista would see that she was cared for.

  Before he left, he gave them all of his money he could spare, repaying Krista and providing for Quality’s future food and rent. He tried to thank Krista for the generous thing she was doing, but was ineffective. He promised to return as soon as he could.

  • • •

  As it happened, he was able to return to them in two months, just before things really got bad at the front. Knowing that he could not speak for his own future, let alone Quality’s, he told her that she would have to go to a Lebensborn maternity home. There at least she would be safe until the baby came, and perhaps thereafter. He hated to do it, but the thought of her fate if he was unable to return convinced him. At least he would not have to worry about her.

  For the bad news at the front was the largest anti-partisan effort yet, Operation Cottbus. Two partisan groups had joined together and formed what they called “The Republic of Lake Palik,” which extended on the southern end to within twenty miles of the Minsk-Moscow railway, and to another Moscow line in the north. There could be real trouble if the partisans started sabotaging the railways. That would interrupt the shipment of supplies and troops to the front. So this had to be dealt with, if German power in the region was to be maintained.

  General Gottberg rounded up more than sixteen thousand men for the operation. Most of them were police from the Baltic states, or Russian volunteers. But it also included a civilian emergency force, part of which was comprised of ninety administrative workers from Minsk. Ernst suspected he knew how they felt: desk workers hauled out to the field, like himself. And of course there were the SS per
sonnel.

  The partisan forces were no mere ragtag bands. They now had tanks, field guns, an air strip and troop-carrying gliders under the command of a Russian Brigadier General. This had become an aspect of the front line, for that line had become dangerously porous. On the map this was pacified territory, but the map was a fiction. Ernst remembered Quality’s remark: “If Germany loses the war.” Out here it was unfortunately easy to recognize that possibility. The folly of not taking Moscow, thus leaving the head of the bear in place, was starkly clear. As was the folly of slaughtering the natives, for each one killed seemed to generate two more partisans.

  Ernst had always regarded Adolf Hitler as a great man. Now even that belief was wearing thin. Perhaps if Hitler could come out here and see the reality, the policy would change. But Hitler, and Germany, seemed to be locked in to this course. In fact Hitler was giving ever greater support to the SS Einsatzgruppen, because its methods were more effective than those of the more fastidious Wehrmacht. It was like Götterdämmerung, the twilight of the gods, as the final battle loomed. The gods were destined to lose, and all things to be destroyed. Richard Wagner’s music for this was beautiful, but the reality was grim.

  Would Quality be allowed to take her books and Victrola to the maternity home, so she could continue listening to Wagner? He hoped so. She was a foreigner, but she wore his swastika, which others would misinterpret as her political statement. How could they refuse her Nietzsche and Wagner?