"Please, what do you know about him? Where he is staying, what his business is?"
Liesl had not known much. But one bit of information was golden. Schumann and Webber apparently planned to meet with someone later that afternoon. And a clandestine gathering it was to be, the spurned waitress had offered darkly. "A toad's business. At someplace called Waltham College."
Kohl had hurried from the Aryan Cafe, collected the DKW and sped to Waltham. He now saw the military college in front of him and eased the car gently onto the gravel shoulder near two low brick columns topped with statues of imperial eagles. Several students lounging on the grass beside backpacks and a picnic basket glanced at the dusty, black car.
Kohl gestured the students over to the car and the blond young men, sensing authority, trotted quickly forward.
"Hail Hitler."
"Hail," Kohl replied. "School is still in session? In the summer?"
"There are courses being taught, sir. Today, though, we have no classes, so we've been hiking."
Like his own sons, these students were caught in the great fever of Third Empire education, only more so, of course, since the whole point of this college was to produce soldiers.
What brilliant criminals the Leader and his crowd are. They kidnap the nation by seizing our children....
He opened Schumann's passport and displayed the picture. "Have you seen this man?"
"No, Inspector," one said and glanced at his friends, who shook their heads no.
"How long have you been here?"
"Perhaps an hour."
"Has anyone arrived in that time?"
"Yes, sir. Not long ago, a school bus arrived and with it an Opel and a Mercedes. A black one. Five-liter. New."
"No, it was the seven-point-seven," a friend corrected.
"You're blind! It was much smaller."
A third said, "And that Labor Service truck. Only it didn't drive in here."
"No, it went past and then turned off the road." The boy pointed. "Near the entrance of some other academic buildings."
"Labor Service?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was the truck full of workers?"
"We couldn't see in the back."
"Did you get a look at the driver?"
"No, sir."
"Nor I."
Labor Service... Kohl pondered this. RAD workers were used primarily for farming and public works. It would be very unusual for them to be assigned to a college, especially on Sunday. "Has the Service been doing some work here?"
The boy shrugged. "I don't believe so, sir."
"I've heard of nothing either, sir."
"Don't say anything of my questions," Kohl said. "To anyone."
"A matter of Party security?" one boy asked with an intrigued smile.
Kohl touched his finger to his lips.
And left them gossiping excitedly about what the mysterious policeman might mean.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Closing in on the gray Opel.
Crawling, pause.
Then crawling again. Just like at St. Mihiel and the dense, ancient forests of Argonne.
Paul Schumann smelled hot grass and the old manure used to fertilize the field. Smelled the oil and creosote of the weapon. Smelled his own sweat.
Another few feet. Then pause.
He had to move slowly; he was very exposed here. Anyone on the field around Building 5 might have glanced his way and noticed the grass swaying unnaturally or caught the glint of low light reflecting off the rifle barrel.
Pause.
He looked over the field again. The man in brown was taking a stack of documents from the panel truck. The glare on the windows continued to obscure any view of Ernst in the Mercedes. The SS guard continued his vigil of the area.
Looking back toward the classroom building, Paul watched the balding man call the young men together. They reluctantly ended the soccer game and walked into the classroom.
With their attention focused away from him, Paul continued more quickly now to the Opel, opened the back door and climbed into the baking vehicle, feeling his skin prickle from the heat. Looking out through the back left window, he noted that this was the perfect vantage point to shoot from. He had an excellent view of the area around Ernst's car--a clear killing field of forty to fifty feet to bring the man down. And it would take the bodyguard and soldiers some time to figure out where the shot had come from.
Paul Schumann was touching the ice firmly. He clicked the Mauser's safety catch off and squinted toward Ernst's car.
"Greetings, future soldiers. Welcome to Waltham Military College."
Kurt Fischer and the others replied to Doctor-professor Keitel with various greetings. Most said, "Hail Hitler."
It was interesting that Keitel himself did not use that salutation, Kurt noted.
The recruitment soldier who'd been playing football with them stood beside the doctor-professor, in the front of the classroom, holding a stack of large envelopes. The man winked at Kurt, who'd just missed blocking a goal the soldier had scored.
The volunteers sat at oak desks. On the walls around them were maps and flags that Kurt didn't recognize. His brother was looking around too and he leaned over and whispered, "Battle flags of Second Empire armies."
Kurt shushed him, frowning in irritation, both at the interruption and because his younger brother knew something he did not. And how, he now wondered, troubled, did his brother, the son of pacifists, even know what a battle flag was?
The dowdy professor continued. "I'm going to tell you what is planned for the next few days. You will listen carefully."
"Yes, sir" and its variations filled the room.
"First, you will fill out a personal information form and application for induction into the armed forces. Then you will answer a questionnaire about your personality and your aptitudes. The answers will be compiled and analyzed and will help us determine your talents and mental preferences for certain duties. Some of you, for instance, will be better suited for combat, some for radio work, some for office detail. So it is vital that you answer honestly."
Kurt glanced toward his brother, who did not, however, acknowledge him. Their agreement had been that they would answer any such questions in a way as to be guaranteed of being assigned office tasks or even manual labor--anything to keep from having to kill another human being. But Kurt was troubled that Hans might be thinking differently now. Was he being seduced by the idea of becoming a combat soldier?
"After you are through with the forms, Colonel Ernst will address you. Then you will be shown to your dormitory and be given supper. Tomorrow you will begin your training and spend the next month marching and improving your physical condition before your classroom instruction begins."
Keitel nodded at the soldier, who began passing out the packets. The recruitment officer paused at Kurt's desk. They agreed to try for another game before supper, if the light held. The soldier then followed Keitel outside to get pencils for the inductees.
As he absently smoothed his hand over his documents, Kurt found himself oddly content, despite the harrowing circumstances of this hard, hard day. Yes, certainly some of this was gratitude--to Colonel Ernst and Doctor-professor Keitel--for providing this miraculous salvation. But more than that he was beginning to feel that he'd been given the chance to do something important after all, an act that transcended his own plight. Had Kurt gone to Oranienburg his imprisonment or death would have been courageous perhaps, but meaningless. Now, though, he decided that the incongruous act of volunteering for the army might prove to be exactly the gesture of defiance he'd been searching for, a small but concrete way of helping save his country from the brown plague.
With a smile toward his brother, Kurt ran his hand over the test envelope, realizing that for the first time in months his heart was truly content.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Willi Kohl parked the DKW not far from the Labor Service truck, which was about fifty meters off the road, parked in s
uch a way that the driver clearly intended that the vehicle not be seen.
As he walked quietly to the truck, his Panama hat low to keep the glaring sun out of his eyes, he removed his pistol and listened for footsteps, voices. But he heard nothing out of the ordinary: only birds, crickets, cicadas. He approached the truck slowly. He looked into the back and found the burlap bags, shovels and hoes he'd expected--the "weapons" of the Labor Service. But in the cab he located some items that interested him considerably more. On the seat was an RAD officer's uniform--carefully folded as if it would be used again soon and the wearer was concerned that wrinkles might make him appear suspicious. More important, though, was what he found wrapped in paper beneath the seat: a blue double-breasted suit and a white shirt, both in large sizes. The shirt was an Arrow, made in the United States. And the suit? Kohl felt his heart thud as he looked at the label inside the jacket. Manny's Men's Wear, New York City.
Paul Schumann's favorite store.
Kohl replaced the clothes and looked around for any sign of the American, the toad Webber or anyone else.
No one.
The footsteps in the dust outside the door of the truck suggested that Schumann had gone into the woods toward the campus. An old service drive, leading in that direction, was overgrown with grass but more or less smooth. But it was also exposed; the hedgerows and brush on either side would be a perfect place for Schumann to lie in wait. The only other route was through the hilly woods, strewn with rocks and branches. Ach... His poor feet cried out at the very sight of it. But he had no choice. Willi Kohl started forward through the painful obstacle course.
Please, Paul Schumann prayed. Please, step out of the car, Colonel Ernst, and into clear view. In a country that has outlawed God, where there were fewer prayers to hear, perhaps He'd grant this one.
But apparently this was not the moment for divine help. Ernst remained inside the Mercedes. Glare from the windshield and windows kept Paul from seeing exactly where he was in the backseat. If he fired through the glass and missed he'd never have another chance.
He scanned the field again, reflecting: No breeze. Good light--from the side, not in his eyes--illuminating the killing field. A perfect opportunity to shoot.
Paul wiped the sweat off his forehead and sat back in frustration. He felt something pressing uncomfortably into his thigh and he glanced down. It was the folder of papers that the balding man had placed in the car ten minutes before. He pushed it to the floor but, as he did, he glanced at the document on top. He lifted it and, alternating between glancing at Ernst's Mercedes and the letter, he read:
Ludwig:
You will find annexed hereto my draft letter to the Leader about our study. Note that I've included a reference to the testing being done today at Waltham. We can add the results tonight.
At this early stage of the study I believe it is best that we refer to those killed by our Subject soldiers as state criminals. Therefore you will see in the letter that the two Jewish families we killed at Gatow will be described as Jew subversives, the Polish laborers killed at Charlottenburg as foreign infiltrators, the Roma as sexual deviants, and the young Aryans at Waltham today will be political dissidents. At a later point we can, I feel, be more forthright about the innocence of those exterminated by our Subjects but at the moment I do not believe the climate is right for this.
Nor do I refer to the questionnaires you administer to the soldiers as "psychological testing." This too, I feel, would be unfavorably received.
Please review this and contact me about alterations. I intend to submit the letter as requested, on Monday, 27 July.
--Reinhard
Paul frowned. What was this all about? He flipped to the next sheet and continued reading.
HIGHEST CONFIENTIALITY
Adolf Hitler,
Leader, State Chancellor and President of the German
Nation and Commander of the Armed Forces
Field Marshal Werner von Blomberg,
State Minister of Defense
My Leader and my Minister:
You have asked for details of the Waltham Study being conducted by myself and Doctor-Professor Ludwig Keitel of Waltham Military College. I am pleased to describe the nature of the study and the results so far.
This study arises out of my instructions from you to make ready the German armed forces and to help them achieve most expeditiously the goals of our great nation, as you have set forth.
In my years of commanding our courageous troops during the War, I learned much about men's behavior during combat. While any good soldier will follow orders, it became clear to me that men respond in different ways to the matter of killing, and this difference, I believe, is based on their nature.
In brief, our study involves asking questions of soldiers before and after they execute condemned enemies of the state and then analyzing their responses. These executions involve a number of different situations: various methods of execution, categories of prisoners, relationship of the soldier to the prisoners, the family background and personal history of the soldier, etc. The examples to date are as follows:
On 18 July of this year, in the town of Gatow, a soldier (Subject A) questioned at length two groups convicted of Jewish subversive activities. He was then ordered to carry out the execution order by automatic weapon fire.
On 19 July, a soldier in Charlottenburg (Subject B) similarly executed a number of Polish infiltrators. Although Subject B was the proximate cause of their deaths, he had had no communication with them prior to their extermination, unlike the Gatow executions.
On 21 July a soldier (Subject C) executed a group of Roma Gypsies engaged in sexually deviant behavior in a special facility we have had constructed at Waltham College. Carbon monoxide gas from vehicle exhaust was the means of death. Like Subject B, this soldier never conversed with the victims, but, unlike him, he did not witness their actual deaths.
Paul Schumann gasped in shock. He looked again at the first letter. Why, these people killed were innocent, by Ernst's own admission. Jewish families, Polish workers... He read the passages again to make sure he'd seen correctly. He thought he must have mistranslated the words. But, no, there wasn't any doubt. He looked across the dusty field at the black Mercedes, which still sheltered Ernst. He glanced down at the letter to Hitler and continued.
On 26 July a soldier (Subject D) executed a dozen political dissidents at the Waltham facility. The variation in this case was that these particular convicts were of Aryan extraction, and Subject D spent an hour or more conversing and playing sports with them immediately before he executed them, getting to know some of them by name. He was further instructed to observe them die.
Oh, Christ... that's here, today!
Paul leaned forward, squinting over the field. The gray-uniformed German soldier who'd been playing soccer with the boys gave a stiff-arm salute to the balding man in brown then he hooked a thick hose from the tailpipe of the bus into a fixture on the outside wall of the classroom.
We are presently compiling the responses provided by all of these Subject soldiers. Several dozen other executions are planned, each one a variation intended to provide us with as much helpful data as possible. The results of the first four tests are attached hereto.
Please be assured we reject out of hand the tainted Jew-thinking of traitors like Dr. Freud but feel that solid National Socialist philosophy and science will allow us to match the personality types of soldiers with the means of death, the nature of the victims and the relationship between them to more efficiently achieve the goals you have set forth for our great nation.
We will be submitting the complete report to you within two months.
With all humble respect,
Col. Reinhard Ernst,
Plenipotentiary
for Domestic Stability
Paul looked up, across the field, to see the soldier glance into the classroom at the young men, close the door, then walk calmly to the bus and turn on the engine.
C
hapter Thirty-Seven
When the door to the classroom closed, the students looked around them. It was Kurt Fischer who got out of his seat and walked to the window. He rapped on it.
"You've forgotten the pencils," he called.
"There are some in the back," someone called.
Kurt found three stubby pencils sitting on a chalkboard ledge. "But not enough for us all."
"How can we take a test without pencils?"
"Open a window!" somebody called. "My God, it's hot in here."
A tall blond boy, jailed because he'd written a poem ridiculing the Hitler Youth, walked to the windows. He struggled to undo the latch.
Kurt returned to his seat and tore open his envelope. He pulled out the sheets of paper to see what sort of personal information they wanted and if there would be any questions about their parents' pacifism. But he laughed in surprise.
"Look at this," he said. "The printing didn't come out on mine."
"No, mine too."
"It's all of them! They're blank!"
"This is absurd."
The blond boy at the window called, "They don't open." He looked around the stifling room at the others. "None of them. The windows. They don't open."
"I can do it," said a huge young man. But the locks defeated him too. "They're sealed shut. Why would that be?..." Then he squinted at the window. "It's not normal glass, either. It's thick."
It was then that Kurt smelled the sweet, strong aroma of petrol exhaust flooding into the room from a vent above the door.
"What's that? Something's wrong!"
"They're killing us!" a boy shrieked. "Look outside!"
"A hose. Look!"
"Break out. Break the glass!"