‘Stay here,’ he said, and left.
He crossed the passage and entered his study. From telephone directory inquiries he elicited the numbers of the Eberhardt Bakery, the Bremen General Hospital and the Arcadia Clinic at Delmenhorst. He rang the bakery first. Eberhardt’s secretary was most helpful.
‘I’m afraid Herr Eberhardt is away on holiday, sir. No, he can’t be contacted, he has taken his usual winter cruise to the Caribbean with Frau Eberhardt. He’ll be back in four weeks. Can I be of any assistance?’
The lawyer assured her she could not, and hung up.
Next he dialled the Bremen General, and asked for Personnel and Staff.
‘This is the Department of Social Security, Pensions Section here,’ he said smoothly. ‘I just wanted to confirm that you have a ward orderly on the staff by the name of Hartstein.’
There was a pause while the girl at the other end went through the staff file.
‘Yes, we do,’ she said. ‘David Hartstein.’
‘Thank you,’ said the lawyer in Nuremberg and hung up. He dialled the same number again and asked for the Registrar’s Office.
‘This is the secretary of the Eberhardt Baking Company here,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to check on the progress of one of our staff who has been in your hospital with a tumour in the stomach. Can you tell me of his progress? Rolf Gunther Kolb.
There was another pause. The girl filing clerk got out the file on Rolf Gunther Kolb and glanced at the last page.
‘He’s been discharged,’ she told the caller. ‘His condition improved to a point where he could be transferred to a convalescent clinic.’
‘Excellent,’ said the lawyer. ‘I’ve been away on my annual ski-ing holiday, so I haven’t caught up yet. Can you tell me which clinic?’
‘The Arcadia, at Delmenhorst,’ said the girl.
The lawyer hung up again and dialled the Arcadia Clinic. A girl answered. After listening to the request she turned to the doctor by her side. She covered the mouthpiece.
‘There’s an inquiry about that man you mentioned to me, Kolb,’ she said. The doctor took the telephone.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This is the chief of the clinic. I am Dr Braun. Can I help you?’
At the name of Braun, the secretary shot a puzzled glance at her employer. Without batting an eyelid he listened to the voice from Nuremberg and replied smoothly, ‘I’m afraid Herr Kolb discharged himself last Friday afternoon. Most irregular, but there was nothing I could do to prevent him. Yes, that’s right, he was transferred here from the Bremen General. A stomach tumour, well on the mend.’
He listened for a moment, then said, ‘Not at all. Glad I could be of help to you.’
The doctor, whose real name was Rosemayer, hung up and then dialled a Munich number. Without preamble he said, ‘Someone’s been on the phone asking about Kolb. The checking up has started.’
Back in Nuremberg the lawyer replaced the phone and returned to the sitting room.
‘Right, Kolb, you evidently are who you say you are.’
Miller goggled at him in astonishment.
‘However, I’d like to ask you a few more questions. You don’t mind?’
Still amazed, the visitor shook his head.
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. Are you circumcised?’
Miller stared back blankly.
‘No, I’m not,’ he said dumbly.
‘Show me,’ said the lawyer calmly. Miller just sat in his chair and stared at him.
‘Show me, Staff Sergeant,’ snapped the lawyer.
Miller shot out of his chair, ramrodding to attention.
‘Zu Befehl,’ he responded, quivering at attention.
He held the attention position, thumbs down the seams of his trousers, for three seconds, then unzipped his fly. The lawyer glanced at him briefly, then nodded for him to do himself up again.
‘Well, at least you’re not Jewish,’ he said amiably.
Back in his chair Miller goggled at him, open-mouthed.
‘Of course I’m not Jewish,’ he blurted.
The lawyer smiled.
‘Nevertheless, there have been cases of Jews trying to pass themselves off as one of the Kameraden. They don’t last long. Now you’d better tell me your story, and I’m going to shoot questions at you. Just checking up, you understand. Where were you born?’
‘Bremen, sir.’
‘Right, place of birth is in your SS records. I just checked. Were you in the Hitler Youth?’
‘Yes, sir. Entered at the age of ten in 1935, sir.’
‘Your parents were good National Socialists?’
‘Yes, sir, both of them.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘They were killed in the great bombing of Bremen.’
‘When were you inducted into the SS?’
‘Spring 1944, sir. Age eighteen.’
‘Where did you train?’
‘Dachau SS training camp, sir.’
‘You had your blood group tattooed under your right armpit?’
‘No, sir. And it would have been the left armpit.’
‘Why weren’t you tattooed?’
‘Well, sir, we were due to pass out of training camp in August 1944 and go to our first posting in a unit of the Waffen-SS. Then in July a large group of army officers involved in the plot against the Fuehrer were sent down to Flossenburg camp. Flossenburg asked for immediate draftings from Dachau training camp to increase the staff at Flossenburg. Me and about a dozen others were singled out as cases of special aptitude and posted straight there. We missed our tattooing and the formal passing-out parade of our draft. The commandant said the blood group was not necessary, as we would never get a posting to the front, sir.’
The lawyer nodded. No doubt the commandant had also been aware in July 1944 that with the Allies well into France the war was drawing to a close.
‘Did you get your dagger?’
‘Yes, sir. From the hands of the commandant.’
‘What are the words on it?’
‘“Blood and honour”, sir.’
‘What kind of training did you get at Dachau?’
‘Complete military training, sir, and political-ideological training to supplement that of the Hitler Youth.’
‘Did you learn the songs?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What was the book of marching songs from which the Horst Wessel Song was drawn?’
‘The album Time of Struggle for the Nation, sir.’
‘Where was Dachau training camp?’
‘Ten miles north of Munich, sir. Three miles from the concentration camp of the same name.’
‘What was your uniform?’
‘Grey-green tunic and breeches, jackboots, black collar lapels, rank on the left one, black leather belt and gunmetal buckle.’
‘The motto on the buckle?’
‘A swastika in the centre, ringed with the words “My honour is loyalty”, sir.’
The lawyer rose and stretched. He lit up a cigar and strolled to the window.
‘Now you’ll tell me about Flossenburg camp, Staff Sergeant Kolb. Where was it?’
‘On the border of Bavaria and Thuringia, sir.’
‘When was it opened?’
‘In 1934, sir. One of the first for the pigs who opposed the Fuehrer.’
‘How large was it?’
‘When I was there, sir, 300 metres by 300. It was ringed by nineteen watch-towers with heavy and light machine guns mounted. It had a roll-call square 120 metres by 140. God, we had some fun there with them Yids …’
‘Stick to the point,’ snapped the lawyer. ‘What was the accommodation?’
‘Twenty-four barracks, a kitchen for the inmates, a wash-house, a sanatorium and various workshops.’
‘And for the SS guards?’
‘Two barracks, a shop and a bordello.’
‘How were the bodies of those who died disposed of?’
‘There was a small crematorium outside the
wire. It was reached from inside the camp by an underground passage.’
‘What was the main kind of work done?’
‘Stone-breaking in the quarry, sir. The quarry was also outside the wire, surrounded by barbed wire and watch-towers of its own.’
‘What was the population in late 1944?’
‘Oh, about 16,000 inmates, sir.’
‘Where was the commandant’s office?’
‘Outside the wire, sir, halfway up a slope overlooking the camp.’
‘Who were the successive commandants?’
‘Two were before I got there, sir. The first was SS-Major Karl Kunstler. His successor was SS-Captain Karl Fritsch. The last one was SS-Lieutenant-Colonel Max Koegel.’
‘Which was the number of the political department?’
‘Department Two, sir.’
‘Where was it?’
‘In the commandant’s block.’
‘What were its duties?’
‘To ensure that requirements from Berlin that certain prisoners received special treatment were carried out.’
‘Canaris and the other plotters were so indicated?’
‘Yes, sir. They were all designated for special treatment.’
‘When was this carried out?’
‘April 20th, 1945, sir. The Americans were moving up through Bavaria, so the orders came to finish them off. A group of us was designated to do the job. I was then a newly promoted staff sergeant, although I had arrived at the camp as a private. I headed the detail for Canaris and five others. Then we had a burial party of Jews bury the bodies. Hartstein was one of them, damn his eyes. After that we burned the camp documents. Two days later we were ordered to march the prisoners northwards. On the way we heard the Fuehrer had killed himself. Well, sir, the officers left us then. The prisoners started running off into the woods. We shot a few, us sergeants, but there didn’t seem much point in marching on. I mean the Yanks were all over the place.’
‘One last question about the camp, Staff Sergeant. When you looked up, from anywhere in the camp, what did you see?’
Miller looked puzzled.
‘The sky,’ he said.
‘Fool, I mean what dominated the horizon?’
‘Oh, you mean the hill with the ruined castle keep on it?’
The lawyer nodded and smiled.
‘Fourteenth century, actually,’ he said. ‘All right, Kolb, you were at Flossenburg. Now, how did you get away?’
‘Well, sir, it was on the march. We all broke up. I found an army private wandering around, so I hit him on the head and took his uniform. The Yanks caught me two days later. I did two years in a prisoner-of-war camp, but just told them I was an army private. Well, you know how it was, sir, there were rumours floating about the Yanks were shooting SS men out of hand. So I said I was in the Army.’
The lawyer exhaled a draught of cigar smoke.
‘You weren’t alone in that. Did you change your name?’
‘No, sir. I threw my papers away because they identified me as SS. But I didn’t think to change the name. I didn’t think anyone would look for a staff sergeant. At the time the business with Canaris didn’t seem very important. It was only much later people started to make a fuss of those army officers, and made a shrine out of the place in Berlin where they hanged the ringleaders. But then I had papers from the Federal Republic in the name of Kolb. Anyway, nothing would have happened if that orderly hadn’t spotted me, and after that it wouldn’t have mattered what I called myself.’
‘True. Right, now we’ll go on to a little of the things you were taught. Start by repeating to me the oath of loyalty to the Fuehrer,’ said the lawyer.
It went on for another three hours. Miller was sweating, but was able to say he had left hospital prematurely and had not eaten all day. It was past lunchtime when at last the lawyer professed himself satisfied.
‘Just what do you want?’ he asked Miller.
‘Well, the thing is, sir, with them all looking for me, I’m going to need a set of papers showing I am not Rolf Gunther Kolb. I can change my appearance, grow my hair, let the moustache grow longer, and get a job in Bavaria or somewhere. I mean, I’m a skilled baker, and people need bread, don’t they?’
For the first time in the interview the lawyer threw back his head and laughed.
‘Yes, my good Kolb, people need bread. Very well. Listen. Normally people of your standing in life hardly merit a lot of expensive time and trouble being spent on them. But as you are evidently in trouble through no fault of your own, obviously a good and loyal German, I’ll do what I can. There’s no point in your getting simply a new driving licence. That would not enable you to get a social security card without producing a birth certificate, which you haven’t got. But a new passport would get you all these things. Have you got any money?’
‘No, sir. I’m flush out. I’ve been hitch-hiking south for the past three days.’
The lawyer gave him a hundred-mark note.
‘You can’t stay here, and it will take at least a week before your new passport comes through. I’ll send you to a friend of mine who will acquire the passport for you. He lives in Stuttgart. You’d better check into a commercial hotel and go and see him. I’ll tell him you’re coming and he’ll be expecting you.’
The lawyer wrote on a piece of paper.
‘He’s called Franz Bayer and here’s his address. You’d better take the train to Stuttgart, find a hotel and go straight to him. If you need a little more money, he’ll help you out. But don’t go spending madly. Stay under cover and wait until Bayer can fix you a new passport. Then we’ll find a job in southern Germany, and no one will ever trace you.’
Miller took the hundred marks and the address of Bayer with embarrassed thanks.
‘Oh, thank you, Herr Doktor, you’re a real gent.’
The maid showed him out and he walked back towards the station, his hotel and his parked car. An hour later he was speeding towards Stuttgart, while the lawyer rang Bayer and told him to expect Rolf Gunther Kolb, refugee from the police, in the early evening.
There was no autobahn between Nuremberg and Stuttgart in those days, and on a bright sunny day the road leading across the lush plain of Franconia and into the wooded hills and valleys of Württemberg would have been picturesque. On a bitter February afternoon, with ice glittering in the dips of the road surface and mist forming in the valleys, the twisting ribbon of tarmacadam between Ansbach and Crailsheim was murderous. Twice the heavy Jaguar almost slithered into a ditch, and twice Miller had to tell himself there was no hurry. Bayer, the man who knew how to get false passports, would still be there.
He arrived after dark and found a small hotel in the outer city that nevertheless had a night porter for those who preferred to stay out late, and a garage round the back for the car. From the hall porter he got a town plan and found Bayer’s street in the suburb of Ostheim, a well-set-up area not far from the Villa Berg in whose gardens the Princes of Württemberg and their ladies had once disported themselves on summer nights.
Following the map he drove the car down into the bowl of hills that frames the centre of Stuttgart, along which the vineyards come up to the outskirts of the city, and parked his car a quarter of a mile from Bayer’s house. As he stooped to lock the driver’s side door he failed to notice a middle-aged lady coming home from her weekly meeting of the Hospital Visitors’ Committee at the nearby Villa Hospital.
It was eight that evening that the lawyer in Nuremberg thought he had better ring Bayer and make sure the refugee Kolb had arrived safely. It was Bayer’s wife who answered.
‘Oh, yes, the young man, he and my husband have gone out to dinner somewhere.’
‘I just rang to make sure he had arrived safe and sound,’ said the lawyer smoothly.
‘Such a nice young man,’ burbled Frau Bayer cheerfully. ‘I passed him as he was parking his car. I was just on my way home from the Hospital Visitors’ Committee meeting. But miles away from the house. He must have los
t his way. It’s very easy, you know, in Stuttgart … so many road-ups and one-way streets …’
‘Excuse me, Frau Bayer,’ the lawyer cut in. ‘The man had not got his Volkswagen with him. He came by train.’
‘No, no,’ said Frau Bayer, happy to be able to show superior knowledge. ‘He came by car. Such a nice young man, and such a lovely car. I’m sure he’s a success with all the girls with a …’
‘Frau Bayer, listen to me. Carefully now. What kind of a car was it?’
‘Well, I don’t know the make, of course. But a sports car. A long black one, with a yellow stripe down the side …’
The lawyer slammed down the phone, then raised it and dialled a number in Nuremberg. He was sweating slightly. When he got the hotel he wanted he asked for a room number. The phone extension was lifted, and a familiar voice said, ‘Hallo.’
‘Mackensen,’ barked the Werwolf, ‘get over here fast. We’ve found Miller.’
Chapter Thirteen
FRANZ BAYER WAS AS fat and round and jolly as his wife. Alerted by the Werwolf to expect the fugitive from the police, he welcomed Miller on his doorstep when he presented himself just after eight o’clock.
Miller was introduced briefly to his wife in the hallway before she bustled off to the kitchen.
‘Well now,’ said Bayer, ‘have you ever been in Württemberg before, my dear Kolb?’
‘No, I confess I haven’t.’
‘Ha, well, we pride ourselves here on being a very hospitable people. No doubt you’d like some food. Have you eaten yet today?’
Miller told him he had had neither breakfast nor lunch, having been on the train all afternoon. Bayer seemed most distressed.
‘Good Lord, how awful. You must eat. Tell you what, we’ll pop into town and have a slap-up dinner. Nonsense, dear boy, the least I can do for you.’
He waddled off into the back of the house to tell his wife he was taking their guest out for a meal in downtown Stuttgart, and ten minutes later they were heading in Bayer’s car towards the city centre.
*
It is at least a two-hour drive from Nuremberg to Stuttgart along the old E 12 high road, even if one pushes the car hard. And Mackensen pushed his car that night. Half an hour after he received the Werwolf’s call, fully briefed and armed with Bayer’s address, he was on the road. He arrived at half past ten and went straight to Bayer’s house.