Field Gray (19 page)

Once again, I walked up and down the lines of prisoners while Bömelburg and the Corsican called the roll. These faces were more defiant than the others and most of the men met my eye with unshifting hatred. Some were Jews, I thought. Others were more obviously Aryan. Once or twice I paused and stared levelly at a man, but I never identified any of the prisoners as Erich Mielke.

Not even when I recognized him.

As the Corsican finished the roll call, I walked back to Bömelburg’s side, shaking my head.

“No luck?”

“No. He’s not there.”

“Are you sure? Some of these fellows are a shadow of their former selves. After six months in this place, I doubt my own wife would recognize me. Have another look, Captain.”

“All right, sir.”

And while I looked at the prisoners again, I made an announcement, for the sake of impressing Bömelburg.

“Listen,” I said. “We’re looking for a man called Erich Fritz Emil Mielke. Perhaps you know him by a different name. I don’t care about his politics—he’s wanted for the murders of two Berlin policemen in 1931. I’m sure many of you read about it in the newspapers at the time. This man is thirty-three years old, fair-haired, medium height, brown eyes, Protestant, from Berlin. He attended the Kollnisches Gymnasium. Probably speaks Russian quite well, and a bit of Spanish. Maybe he’s good with his hands. His father is a woodworker.”

All the time I was speaking I could feel Mielke looking at me, knowing I’d recognized him the way he’d recognized me and doubtless wondering why I didn’t arrest him straightaway and what the hell was going on. I holstered my pistol and took off my officer’s cap in the hope I might look a little less like a Nazi.

“Gentlemen, I make you this promise. If any one of you identifies Erich Mielke to me now, I will personally speak to the camp commander with a view to organizing your release as soon as possible.”

It was the kind of promise that a Nazi would have made. A shifting promise that no one would have trusted. I hoped so. Because after what had happened to the prisoners from Gurs in the forest near Lourdes, the last thing I wanted to do was help the Nazis arrest any more Germans, even a German who had murdered two policemen. I couldn’t do anything about the other men who were on Bömelburg’s list, but I was damned if I was going to finger any more Germans for Heydrich. Not now.

Once again I met Erich Mielke’s eye. He didn’t look away, and I suppose he guessed what I was doing. He was older than I remembered him, of course. Broader and more powerful-looking, especially across the shoulders. He wore a light beard, but there was no mistaking the surly-looking mouth, the watchful ruthless eyes, or the coxcomb of unruly hair on top of his largish head. He must have thought I was a beefsteak Nazi: brown on the outside, red on the inside. But he couldn’t have been more wrong. The murders of Anlauf and Lenck had been just about the most cowardly I’d ever seen, and nothing would have pleased me more than to have snapped him for it and for the Berlin courts to have sent him for a permanent haircut; but as much as I disliked him now, I disliked the casual, instinctive brutality of the Nazi police state even more. I almost wanted to tell him that but for the murders of eight men on a country road the day before he’d have been on his way to a date with a man wearing white gloves and a top hat.

I turned away and walked back to Bömelburg with a shrug.

“It was worth a shot,” he said.

Neither of us expected what happened next.

“I don’t know an Erich Mielke,” said a voice.

The man was small and Jewish-looking, with short, dark, curly hair and shifty brown eyes. A lawyer’s face, which could have been why there was a large bruise on his cheek.

“I don’t know an Erich Mielke,” he repeated, now that he had our attention, “but I would like to become a Nazi.”

Some of the other prisoners laughed, some whistled, but the man kept going.

“I was arrested by the French because I was a German communist,” he said. “I wasn’t an enemy of France then, but I am now. It’s true, I really hate and despise these people worse than I used to hate the Nazis. I spend all day moving latrine bins, and for the rest of my life I’m forever going to associate France with the smell of shit.”

The Corsican’s eyes narrowed and he moved toward the man with his whip raised.

“No,” said Bömelburg. “Let the fellow speak.”

“I’m glad France was defeated,” said the prisoner. “And since I’m declaring myself to be an enemy of France, I’d also like to join the German army and become a loyal soldier of the fatherland and a follower of Adolf Hitler. Who knows? I know the war’s over, but I might just get the chance to shoot a Franzi, which would really make me very happy.”

His fellow prisoners started to jeer, but I could see that Major Bömelburg was impressed.

“So, if you don’t mind, sir, when you leave this shit hole, I’d like to come with you.”

Bömelburg smiled. “Well,” he said. “I think you’d better.”

And he did. But it said a lot about the rest of the Germans in barrack 33 that there was no one else who followed his example. Not one.

GERMANY, 1954

J
esus Christ, Gunther,” exclaimed one of my American interrogators. “Are you trying to tell us that you had that communist bastard Mielke in your power and you let him go?”

“Yes. I am.”

“What, are you crazy? That’s twice you saved his bacon. Did you ever think about that? Jesus.”

“Of course I thought about it.”

“I mean, didn’t you ever regret that?”

“I don’t think I could have made myself clear,” I said. “Even while I was doing it, even while I was pretending I didn’t recognize him, I regretted it. Captain Anlauf’s murder left three orphaned daughters. You see, what you’ve got to remember is that for a while back there, in the dog days of Weimar, the communists were every bit as loathsome as the Nazis. Maybe more so. After all, it was the Comintern that ordered the German Communist Party to treat the country’s governing SPD as the main enemy, not the Nazis. Can you imagine it? In the Red Referendum of July 1931, the KPD and the Nazis marched together and voted together. That was the nonaggression pact in miniature. I always hated them for that. It was the Reds who really destroyed the Republic, not the Nazis.” I helped myself to another of the Ami’s cigarettes. “And if that wasn’t enough, there’s my own experience of Soviet hospitality to take into account as well. For why I hate the communists.”

“Well, we all hate the Reds,” said the man with the pipe.

“No. You hate the Reds because you’ve been told to hate them. But for five years they were your Allies. Roosevelt and Truman shook hands with Stalin and pretended he was different from Hitler. Which he wasn’t. I hate the Reds because I’ve learned to hate them the way a dog learns to hate the man who beats it regularly. During Weimar. During the war. On the Russian front. But most of the reason I hate them is because I spent almost two years in a Soviet labor camp. And until I met you boys I thought that was about as much hate as I could have for any one race of people.”

“We’re not so bad.” The man with the pipe took it out of his mouth and started to refill it. “When you get to know us.”

“You can get used to anything, it’s true,” I said.

The man with the glasses tutted loudly. By now I vaguely recognized him from seven years earlier, at the Stiftskaserne hospital in Vienna.

“After all the trouble we had getting you this exclusive suite,” he said. He started to clean his glasses with the end of his tie. “I’m hurt.”

“When you’re done cleaning your glasses,” I said, “the windows in here could use a wipe, too. I’m particular about windows. Particularly when I know who’s been breathing on them. There’s nothing about this cell I like, now that I know who was in here last.”

The man with the pipe was finally lighting up. Hitler would have hated his pipe. It looked as if I’d found one reason at last to like Adolf Hitler.

The Ami sucked at the stem, blew out some sweet smoke, and said, “I watched an old newsreel the other day. Of Hitler making a speech at Tempelhof Field in Berlin. There were one million people that day. Apparently, it took twelve hours just to get everyone in there, and another twelve to get them all out again. I guess you were the only Berliner who stayed home that night.”

“Berlin nightlife was much better before the Nazis,” I said.

“That’s what I hear. People say it was quite something. Degenerate but lively. All those clubs. Striptease dancers. Naked ladies. Open homosexuality. What were you people thinking? I mean, no wonder the Nazis got an in.” He shook his head. “On the other hand. Munich’s kind of dull, I think.”

“It has some advantages,” I said. “There are no Ivans in Munich.”

“Is that why you lived there after you were in that POW camp? Instead of Berlin?”

“One reason, I suppose.”

“You were in and out of that camp relatively quickly.” He had finished cleaning his glasses and put them back on his head. They were still too small for him, and I wondered if American heads were like American stomachs and kept on growing faster than those in Europe. “In comparison with a lot of other guys. I mean, some of your old comrades are only just coming home now.”

“I was lucky,” I said. “I escaped.”

“How?”

“Mielke was involved.”

“Then we’ll pick it up there tomorrow, shall we? In here. Ten o’clock.”

“You’d better clear that with my secretary,” I said. “Tomorrow’s the day when I start writing my book.”

“What did I tell you? You know, this is a great room for a writer. Maybe the spirit of Adolf Hitler will come and help you out with a few pages.”

“Seriously, though,” said the other Ami. “If you need pen and paper to make a few notes about Mielke, just ask the guard. Might help to jog your memory if you wrote a few things down.”

“Why now? Why not before?”

“Because things are starting to become more important. Mielke starts to become more important. So the more details you can remember, the better.”

“I know one spirit that might help a lot,” I said. “And it isn’t Hitler’s.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a little bit like Goethe,” I said. “When I’m writing a book, I find that a bottle of good German brandy usually helps.”

“Is there such a thing as a good German brandy?”

“I’ll settle for some cheap vodka, only a man needs a hobby when he’s got his feet in the cement. Something to take his mind off the present and put it somewhere in the past. About seven years ago, to be more accurate.”

“All right,” said the man with the glasses. “We’ll get you a bottle of something.”

“And I would like to catch up on my smoking. I’d given up until I left Cuba. Since I met you I’ve got a much better reason to kill myself.”

They left me alone after that. Pencils and paper, a bottle of brandy, a clean glass, a couple of packets of cigarettes and some matches, and even a newspaper arrived, and I placed them all on the table and just watched them for a while, enjoying the freedom to have a drink or not have a drink. It’s the little things that can make prison tolerable. Like a door key. By all accounts, they’d let Hitler have the run of Landsberg and he’d treated the place more like a hotel than a penitentiary. Not that he was in any way penitent about the putsch of 1923, of course.

I lay down on the bed and tried to relax, but it wasn’t easy in that cell. Was this why they’d put me in here? Or was it just an American idea of a joke? I tried not to think about Adolf Hitler, but he kept on getting up from the desk and, full of impatience, going to the window and staring out through the bars in that way he had of always looking like a man chosen by destiny.

The curious thing was I’d never really thought about Hitler. For years when he was still alive I tried not to think of him at all, dismissing him as a crank before he was elected chancellor of Germany and, after that happened, merely wishing him dead. But now that I was lying on the bed where, for nine months, he had dreamed his autocratic dreams, it seemed impossible not to pay attention to the man with blue eyes at the window.

As I watched he sat down at the desk again, picked up the pen, and started to write, covering the sheets of paper with furious scribbling, and sweeping each page off the table and onto the floor as he finished so that I might pick them up and read what was written. At first, the sentences made no sense at all; but gradually these became more coherent, affording glimpses into the extraordinary phenomenon that was Hitler’s mind. Whatever he wrote was based on his own incontrovertible logic and served as a perfect guide for the commission of evil, worked out to the most minute detail. It was like sitting in the same asylum cell as the insane Dr. Mabuse, together with the ghosts of all those he had exterminated and watching him write his last criminal testament.

At last he stopped writing and, leaning back on the chair, turned to look at me. Feeling this was my chance to put him on the spot, I tried to frame a question of the kind that Robert Jackson, the chief American prosecutor at Nuremberg, might have asked. But this was more difficult than I might have imagined. There wasn’t any single question beyond a simple “Why?” that I could have asked, and I was still wrestling with this realization when he spoke to me:

“So, what happened next?”

I tried to stifle a yawn. “You mean when I left Le Vernet?”

“Of course.”

“We went back to Toulouse,” I said. “From there we drove to Vichy and handed our prisoners to the French. Then we drove to the border of the occupied zone—Bourges, I think it was—and waited for the French to deliver them back to us. A ridiculous arrangement, but one that seemed to suit the hypocrisy of the French. These prisoners included poor Herschel Grynszpan. From Bourges we drove back to Paris, where the prisoners were locked up before being flown to Berlin. Well, you probably know better than me what happened to Grynszpan. I know he was in Sachsenhausen for a while. And there never was a show trial, of course.”

“A trial was unnecessary,” said Hitler. “His guilt was obvious. Besides, it might have been embarrassing for Pétain. Just like the Riom trial, when that Jew André Blum gave evidence against Laval.”

I nodded. “Yes, I can see that.”

“I didn’t hear anything about what happened to him,” said Hitler. “At any rate, I cannot recollect. At the end, I had quite a lot on my mind. Himmler probably dealt with him. I daresay he was one of those whose hash got settled by the SS at Flossenburg in the last days of the war. But, you know, Grynszpan had it coming. After all, there’s no doubt that he really did murder Ernst vom Rath. No doubt at all. The Jew just wanted to kill an important German, and vom Rath was merely the unlucky man he killed. There were plenty of witnesses to the murder who came forward and told the truth about what happened. Not that you would know the meaning of truth. Your behavior at Le Vernet was a gross act of deceit and betrayal. To me and your fellow officers.”

“Yes, it was,” I said. “But I’ll live with it.”

“Did you go straight back to Berlin?”

“No, I stayed on in Paris for a while, pretending to make further inquiries about Erich Mielke. A lot of other German communists and men from the International Brigade had volunteered for the French Foreign Legion to escape from the Gestapo in France. The Legion never paid much attention to a man’s past. You enlisted in Marseilles and served in the French colonies, with no questions asked. It was easy to suggest in my report to Heydrich that this was how he had escaped us. The truth is rather more interesting.”

“Not to me,” said Hitler. “What I’m rather more interested in is what you did about the officer who tried to murder you.”

“What makes you think I did anything at all?”

“Because I know men. Go on. Admit it. You got even with him, didn’t you? This Lieutenant Nikolaus Willms.”

“Yes, I did.”

Hitler was triumphant. “I knew it. You sit there with your kangaroo court, Robert Jackson questions, but underneath you’re no different from me. That makes you a hypocrite, Gunther. A hypocrite.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“So what did you do? Denounce him to the Gestapo? The same way you helped denounce that other fellow? The Gestapo captain from Würzburg. What was his name again?”

“Weinberger.” I shook my head. “No, that’s not what happened.”

“Of course. You had Heydrich take care of him. Heydrich was always very good at getting rid of people. Considering he was a mischling, he was an excellent Nazi. I suppose he felt he had to try that much harder to prove himself to me.” Hitler laughed. “That’s the only reason we ever kept him on.”

“No, it wasn’t like that either. I didn’t involve Heydrich.”

Hitler turned his chair around to face me and rubbed his hands. “I want to hear it all. Every sordid detail.”

I yawned again. I was feeling tired. My eyes kept on closing. All I really wanted to do was go to sleep and dream of somewhere different.

“I order you to tell me.”

“Is that a Führer order?”

“If you like.”

I gave a little jolt, the way you do when sleep takes you for a ride and instead you get the crazy idea you just died. This little death is a wonderful sensation. It reminds you why it is that breathing feels so good.