They decided to take Carla with them, because she had witnessed the interview with Ada. The director might find it more difficult to change his story in front of her.
On the train, Ochs suggested he should do the talking. "The director is probably a Nazi," he said. Most people in senior jobs nowadays were party members. "He will naturally see a former Social Democrat deputy as an enemy. I will play the role of unbiased arbitrator. That way, I believe, we may learn more."
Carla was not sure about that. She felt her father would be a more expert questioner. But Walter went along with the pastor's suggestion.
It was spring, and the weather was warmer than on Carla's last visit. There were boats on the lake. Carla decided to ask Werner to come out here for a picnic. She wanted to make the most of him before he drifted off to another girl.
Professor Willrich had a fire blazing, but a window was open, letting in a fresh breeze off the water.
The director shook hands with Pastor Ochs and Walter. He gave Carla a brief glance of recognition, then ignored her. He invited them to sit down, but Carla saw there was angry hostility behind his superficial courtesy. Clearly he did not relish being questioned. He picked up one of his pipes and played with it nervously. He was less arrogant today, confronted by two mature men rather than a couple of young women.
Ochs opened the discussion. "Herr von Ulrich and others in my congregation are concerned, Professor Willrich, about the mysterious deaths of several handicapped children known to them."
"No children have died mysteriously here," Willrich shot back. "In fact no child has died here in the last two years."
Ochs turned to Walter. "I find that very reassuring, Walter, don't you?"
"Yes," said Walter.
Carla did not, but she kept her mouth shut for the moment.
Ochs went on unctuously: "I feel sure that you give your charges the best possible care."
"Yes." Willrich looked a little less anxious.
"But you do send children from here to other hospitals?"
"Of course, if another institution can offer a child some treatment not available here."
"And when a child is transferred, I suppose you are not necessarily kept informed about his treatment or his condition thereafter."
"Exactly!"
"Unless they come back."
Willrich said nothing.
"Have any come back?"
"No."
Ochs shrugged. "Then you cannot be expected to know what happened to them."
"Precisely."
Ochs sat back and spread his hands in a gesture of openness. "So you have nothing to hide!"
"Nothing at all."
"Some of those transferred children have died."
Willrich said nothing.
Ochs gently persisted. "That's true, isn't it?"
"I cannot answer you with any certain knowledge, Herr Pastor."
"Ah!" said Ochs. "Because even if one of those children died, you would not be notified."
"As we said before."
"Forgive me the repetition, but I simply want to establish beyond doubt that you cannot be asked to shed light on those deaths."
"Not at all."
Once again Ochs turned to Walter. "I think we're clearing matters up splendidly."
Walter nodded.
Carla wanted to say Nothing has been cleared up!
But Ochs was speaking again. "Approximately how many children have you transferred in, say, the last twelve months?"
"Ten," said Willrich. "Exactly." He smiled complacently. "We scientific men prefer not to deal in approximations."
"Ten patients, out of . . . ?"
"Today we have one hundred and seven children here."
"A very small proportion!" said Ochs.
Carla was getting angry. Ochs was obviously on Willrich's side! Why was her father swallowing this?
Ochs said: "And did those children suffer from one common condition, or a variety?"
"A variety." Willrich opened a folder on his desk. "Idiocy; Down's syndrome; microcephaly; hydrocephaly; malformations of limbs, head, and spinal column; and paralysis."
"These are the types of patients you were instructed to send to Akelberg."
That was a jump. It was the first mention of Akelberg, and the first suggestion that Willrich had received instructions from a higher authority. Perhaps Ochs was more subtle than he had seemed.
Willrich opened his mouth to say something, but Ochs forestalled him with another question. "Were they all to receive the same special treatment?"
Willrich smiled. "Again, I was not informed, so I cannot tell you."
"You simply complied--"
"With my instructions, yes."
Ochs smiled. "You're a judicious man. You choose your words carefully. Were the children all ages?"
"Initially the program was restricted to children under three, but later it was expanded to benefit all ages, yes."
Carla noted the mention of a "program." That had not been admitted before. She began to realize that Ochs was cleverer than he might have at first appeared.
Ochs spoke his next sentence as if confirming something already stated. "And all handicapped Jewish children were included, irrespective of their particular disability."
There was a moment of silence. Willrich looked shocked. Carla wondered how Ochs knew that about Jewish children. Perhaps he did not; he might have been guessing.
After a pause, Ochs added: "Jewish children, and those of mixed race, I should have said."
Willrich did not speak, but gave a slight nod.
Ochs went on: "It's unusual, in this day and age, for Jewish children to be given preference, isn't it?"
Willrich looked away.
The pastor stood up, and when he spoke again his voice rang with anger. "You have told me that ten children suffering from a range of illnesses, who could not possibly all benefit from the same treatment, were sent away to a special hospital from which they never returned; and that Jews got priority. What did you think happened to them, Herr Professor Doctor Willrich? In God's name, what did you think?"
Willrich looked as if he would cry.
"You may say nothing, of course," Ochs said more quietly. "But one day you will be asked the same question by a higher authority, in fact by the highest of all authorities."
He stretched out his arm and pointed a condemning finger.
"And on that day, my son, you will answer."
With that he turned around and left the room.
Carla and Walter followed him out.
v
Inspector Thomas Macke smiled. Sometimes the enemies of the state did his job for him. Instead of working in secret, and hiding away where they were difficult to find, they identified themselves to him and generously provided irrefutable evidence of their crimes. They were like fish that did not require bait and a hook but simply jumped out of the river into the fisherman's basket and begged to be fried.
Pastor Ochs was one such.
Macke read his letter again. It was addressed to the justice minister, Franz Gurtner.
Dear Minister,
Is the government killing handicapped children? I ask you this question bluntly because I must have a plain answer.
What a fool! If the answer was no, this was a criminal libel; if yes, Ochs was guilty of revealing state secrets. Could he not figure that out for himself?
After it became impossible to ignore rumors circulating in my congregation, I visited the Wannsee Children's Nursing Home and spoke to its director, Professor Willrich. His responses were so unsatisfactory that I became convinced something terrible is going on, something that is presumably a crime and unquestionably a sin.
The man had the nerve to write of crimes! Did it not occur to him that accusing government agencies of illegal acts was itself an illegal act? Did he imagine he was living in a degenerate liberal democracy?
Macke knew what Ochs was complaining about. The program was called Aktion T4 after its addres
s, 4 Tiergarten Strasse. The agency was officially the Charitable Foundation for Cure and Institutional Care, though it was supervised by Hitler's personal office, the Chancellery of the Fuhrer. Its job was to arrange the painless deaths of handicapped people who could not survive without costly care. It had done splendid work in the last couple of years, disposing of tens of thousands of useless people.
The problem was that German public opinion was not yet sophisticated enough to understand the need for such deaths, so the program had to be kept quiet.
Macke was in on the secret. He had been promoted to inspector and had at last been admitted to the Nazi Party's elite paramilitary Schutzstaffel, the SS. He had been briefed on Aktion T4 when he was assigned to the Ochs case. He felt proud: he was a real insider now.
Unfortunately, people had been careless, and there was a danger that the secret of Aktion T4 would get out.
It was Macke's job to plug the leak.
Preliminary inquiries had swiftly revealed that there were three men to be silenced: Pastor Ochs, Walter von Ulrich, and Werner Franck.
Franck was the elder son of a radio manufacturer who had been an important early supporter of the Nazis. The manufacturer himself, Ludwig Franck, had initially made furious demands for information about the death of his disabled younger son, but had quickly fallen silent after a threat to close his factories. Young Werner, a fast-rising officer in the Air Ministry, had persisted in asking troubling questions, trying to involve his influential boss, General Dorn.
The Air Ministry, said to be the largest office building in Europe, was an ultramodern edifice occupying an entire block of Wilhelm Strasse, just around the corner from Gestapo headquarters in Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Macke walked there.
In his SS uniform he was able to ignore the guards. At the reception desk he barked: "Take me to Lieutenant Werner Franck immediately."
The receptionist took him up in an elevator and along a corridor to an open door leading into a small office. The young man at the desk did not at first look up from the papers in front of him. Observing him, Macke guessed he was about twenty-two years old. Why was he not with a front-line unit, bombing England? The father had probably pulled strings, Macke thought resentfully. Werner looked like a son of privilege: tailored uniform, gold rings, and overlong hair that was distinctly unmilitary. Macke despised him already.
Werner wrote a note with a pencil, then looked up. The amiable expression on his face died quickly when he saw the SS uniform, and Macke noted with interest a flash of fear. The boy immediately tried to cover up with a show of bonhomie, standing up deferentially and smiling a welcome, but Macke was not fooled.
"Good afternoon, Inspector," said Werner. "Please be seated."
"Heil Hitler," said Macke.
"Heil Hitler. How can I help you?"
"Sit down and shut up, you foolish boy," Macke spat.
Werner struggled to hide his fear. "My goodness, what can I have done to incur such wrath?"
"Don't presume to question me. Speak when you're spoken to."
"As you wish."
"From this moment on you will ask no further questions about your brother, Axel."
Macke was surprised to see a momentary look of relief pass over Werner's face. That was puzzling. Had he been afraid of something else, something more frightening than the simple order to stop asking questions about his brother? Could Werner be involved in other subversive activities?
Probably not, Macke thought on reflection. Most likely Werner was relieved he was not being arrested and taken to the basement in Prinz Albrecht Strasse.
Werner was not yet completely cowed. He summoned the nerve to say: "Why should I not ask how my brother died?"
"I told you not to question me. Be aware that you are being treated gently only because your father has been a valued friend of the Nazi Party. Were it not for that, you would be in my office." That was a threat everyone understood.
"I'm grateful for your forbearance," Werner said, struggling to retain a shred of dignity. "But I want to know who killed my brother, and why."
"You will learn no more, regardless of what you do. But any further inquiries will be regarded as treason."
"I hardly need to make further inquiries, after this visit from you. It is now clear that my worst suspicions were right."
"I require you to drop your seditious campaign immediately."
Werner stared defiantly back but said nothing.
Macke said: "If you do not, General Dorn will be informed that there are questions about your loyalty." Werner could be in no doubt about what that meant. He would lose his cozy job here in Berlin and be dispatched to a barracks on an airstrip in northern France.
Werner looked less defiant, more thoughtful.
Macke stood up. He had spent enough time here. "Apparently General Dorn finds you a capable and intelligent assistant," he said. "If you do the right thing, you may continue in that role." He left the room.
He felt edgy and dissatisfied. He was not sure he had succeeded in crushing Werner's will. He had sensed a bedrock defiance that remained untouched.
He turned his mind to Pastor Ochs. A different approach would be required for him. Macke returned to Gestapo headquarters and collected a small team: Reinhold Wagner, Klaus Richter, and Gunther Schneider. They took a black Mercedes 260D, the Gestapo's favorite car, unobtrusive because many Berlin taxis were the same model and color. In the early days, the Gestapo had been encouraged to make themselves visible and let the public see the brutal way they dealt with opposition. However, the terrorization of the German people had been accomplished long ago, and open violence was no longer necessary. Nowadays the Gestapo acted discreetly, always with a cloak of legality.
They drove to Ochs's house next to the large Protestant church in Mitte, the central district. In the same way that Werner might think he was protected by his father, so Ochs probably imagined his church made him safe. He was about to learn otherwise.
Macke rang the bell; in the old days they would have kicked the door down, just for effect.
A maid opened the door, and he walked into a broad, well-lit hallway with polished floorboards and heavy rugs. The other three followed him in. "Where is your master?" Macke said pleasantly to the maid.
He had not threatened her, but all the same she was frightened. "In his study, sir," she said, and she pointed to a door.
Macke said to Wagner: "Get the women and children together in the next room."
Ochs opened the study door and looked into the hall, frowning. "What on earth is going on?" he said indignantly.
Macke walked directly toward him, forcing him to step back and allow Macke to enter the room. It was a small, well-appointed den, with a leather-topped desk and shelves of biblical commentaries. "Close the door," said Macke.
Reluctantly, Ochs did as he was told; then he said: "You'd better have a very good explanation for this intrusion."
"Sit down and shut up," said Macke.
Ochs was dumbfounded. Probably he had not been told to shut up since he was a boy. Clergymen were not normally insulted, even by policemen. But the Nazis ignored such enfeebling conventions.
"This is an outrage!" Ochs managed at last. Then he sat down.
Outside the room, a woman's voice was raised in protest: the wife, presumably. Ochs paled when he heard it, and rose from his chair.
Macke pushed him back down. "Stay where you are."
Ochs was a heavy man, and taller than Macke, but he did not resist.
Macke loved to see these pompous types deflated by fear.
"Who are you?" said Ochs.
Macke never told them. They could guess, of course, but it was more frightening if they did not know for sure. Afterward, in the unlikely event that anyone asked questions, the whole team would swear that they had begun by identifying themselves as police officers and showing their badges.
He went out. His men were hustling several children into the parlor. Macke told Reinhold Wagner to go into the s
tudy and keep Ochs there. Then he followed the children into the other room.
There were flowered curtains, family photographs on the mantelpiece, and a set of comfortable chairs upholstered in a checked fabric. It was a nice home and a nice family. Why could they not be loyal to the Reich and mind their own business?
The maid was by the window, hand over her mouth as if to stop herself crying out. Four children clustered around Ochs's wife, a plain, heavy-breasted woman in her thirties. She held a fifth child in her arms, a girl of about two years with blond ringlets.
Macke patted the girl's head. "And what is this one's name?" he said.
Frau Ochs was terrified. She whispered: "Lieselotte. What do you want with us?"
"Come to Uncle Thomas, little Lieselotte," said Macke, holding out his arms.
"No!" Frau Ochs cried. She clutched the child closer and turned away.
Lieselotte began to cry loudly.
Macke nodded to Klaus Richter.
Richter grabbed Frau Ochs from behind, pulling her arms back, forcing her to let go of the child. Macke took Lieselotte before she fell. The child wriggled like a fish, but he just held her tighter, as he would have held a cat. She wailed louder.
A boy of about twelve flung himself at Macke, small fists pounding ineffectually. It was about time he learned to respect authority, Macke decided. He put Lieselotte on his left hip, then, with his right hand, picked the boy up by his shirt front and threw him across the room, making sure he landed in an upholstered chair. The boy yelled in fear and Frau Ochs screamed. The chair went over backward and the boy tumbled to the floor. He was not really hurt but he began to cry.
Macke took Lieselotte out into the hall. She screamed at the top of her voice for her mother. Macke put her down. She ran to the parlor door and banged on it, screeching in terror. She had not yet learned to turn doorknobs, Macke noted.
Leaving the child in the hallway, Macke reentered the study. Wagner was by the door, guarding it; Ochs was standing in the middle of the room, white with fear. "What are you doing to my children?" he said. "Why is Lieselotte screaming?"
"You will write a letter," Macke said.
"Yes, yes, anything," Ochs said, going to the leather-topped desk.
"Not now, later."
"All right."
Macke was enjoying this. Ochs's collapse was complete, unlike Werner's. "A letter to the justice minister," he went on.
"So that's what this is about."