Secrets of the Last Nazi (24 page)

H
elen ended
her call to the States, thrilled that her editor had given her pitch the go-ahead. Proof of a link between the planets and human affairs would make an amazing news story, and she hoped the personal angle, tracing Bradley’s work from Germany to Alaska, was just right for TV. Although she also accepted it was going to be difficult – and not just because so many people would try to rubbish her work…

To start the piece, she needed to link up with Myles and his international team. She looked forward to seeing him again – she knew he’d love a surprise visit. But Myles had refused to carry any sort of mobile - it was important no-one could track where he was, he had told her. It meant the only way she could reach them was in person. She’d have to travel to eastern France, to get as close as she could to Compiègne – his last known position.

Her taxi soon pulled up outside the flat in Pembroke Street.

‘Yes, Heathrow Airport, please,’ she confirmed to the cab driver.

‘Which terminal, Miss?’

‘I don’t know, yet,’ she admitted.

But she did know she wanted to get there fast. Something deep in her gut told her Myles was in trouble.

F
ather Samuel thanked
the college porter for the directions, and lumbered into the quad. He watched his footing on the uneven stone slabs, and barely registered the undergraduates he passed, some of them giggling, as he counted off the staircases to number twelve. In normal times, he would have stopped to admire the Renaissance masonry, and seek out religious symbolism in the gargoyles. He would have visited the chapel to absorb the incantations, or read the inscriptions.

But these were not normal times, and Father Samuel was not here for his own pleasure. There was no way he could enjoy himself when his whole belief system was under threat. And it wasn’t just his worldview: the shared understanding of Christianity, delicately constructed over centuries, often in the face of persecution, was in danger. The Church was imperilled by a revelation which would question faith around the globe. He was in Oxford to prevent a shock which could be as crippling as Pope Pius’s failure to oppose the holocaust, the recent child sex abuse scandals, or even the Enlightenment. Indeed, faith had never recovered from what Father Samuel once preached was ‘the decent into rationality’.

Father Samuel confirmed to himself he had reached staircase twelve, and heaved himself up the wooden steps. He found the door at the top was already open.

‘Come on in, Sam,’ invited the familiar voice, smug as ever.

Father Samuel duly entered. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Professor,’ he said, bowing his head. He sat in the only available chair, which he guessed was used to humiliate undergraduates every weekday during term time.

‘So you’ve seen the light, then Father Samuel?’ teased the Professor, turning to greet Samuel with a gloating expression. Even though he was passed sixty, the academic still seemed juvenile much of the time.

‘I’ve come to make peace, if that’s what you mean,’ offered Samuel.

‘Peace? You mean a compromise?’ dismissed the Professor. ‘So we agree that God ‘half-exists’, or something like that?’ He shook his head. ‘I think we both know that’s a bad idea.’ The Professor laughed to himself.

Father Samuel nodded in understanding. Professor Cromhall had certainly done well from his ‘outspoken’ critique of the Church, and defence of science. It had made the man a television celebrity. The Professor could even pretend to be a rebel, which was absurd given his place in the establishment.

‘Perhaps reconciliation is a bad idea, Professor,’ said Father Samuel. ‘But there are some ideas we should discredit
together
.’

The Professor did not respond immediately. Instead, he tried to gauge Father Samuel’s face. Eventually he spoke with a more measured tone.

‘What sort of ideas do you have in mind?’

‘Ideas which – were they widely believed – would make us both fools. For example, that there could be a link between the position of the planets and human affairs,’ offered Father Samuel, testing the Professor with a hint of a smile.

‘Astrology? That’s all nonsense,’ retorted Professor Cromhall. He sounded confident again. ‘No intelligent person looks at the evidence for that. Being intelligent means considering other evidence, while refusing to consider how planetary cycles match up with people’s lives.’ He said the words with a sneer, reciting the mantra he knew was false.

Their eyes met, and silently they acknowledged the truth. They both had to
say
astrology was nonsense, since everybody in authority said that. Their status would be in jeopardy if they said anything else.

‘Your pride in never having applied the scientific method to the link is well-placed, Professor,’ taunted Father Samuel, softly. ‘After all, in a battle between the traditional scientific method and astrology, I’m not sure who would win.’ He let the words float off into the air.

‘OK,’ suggested the Professor, negotiating. ‘I’m prepared to say ‘The evidence for astrology is greater than the evidence for the existence of God.’ Would that help?’

Father Samuel wasn’t buying. ‘It’s not enough,’ he explained. ‘The Nazis found evidence which goes much further. There’s a real danger it leaks –
to the public
…’

Finally, Professor Cromhall’s expression changed. He became ashen as he realised what the public revelation would mean. The myth that science could explain everything would be shattered. Faith in people like him would disappear. His credibility, his book sales, his television appearances – all would be lost if the link between the planets and human affairs was accepted.

‘…Professor, two centuries ago, scientists like you displaced churchmen like me to become the most trusted authority in society,’ continued Father Samuel. ‘Now you risk being displaced yourself by a new field of understanding. Science, like the Church, will belong only to yesterday.’

The Professor sized up his guest, wondering how much he could trust Father Samuel. He decided it was probably worth taking the risk. ‘Well can’t you…’ The Professor drew a single finger across his neck, miming a guillotine.

‘It worked in the past. The French statistician who publicised this before, Michel Gauquelin – when he died in 1991, it wasn’t from natural causes,’ said Father Samuel, raising his eyebrows to make sure the Professor understood the euphemism. ‘And just this morning, in France, one of my most diligent volunteers sacrificed himself for the greater good. But now there are too many people to silence.’

The Professor gulped. ‘So you have another plan?’

‘I do,’ said Father Samuel, finally nodding. ‘Let me explain…’

A
fter ten-and
-a-half hours of driving the minibus had reached the outskirts of Berlin. They were back in the land of tidy streets, perfectly kept green spaces, and architecture from the city’s so very mixed history.

Glenn pointed to the fuel gauge. It was almost empty. ‘We really need gas.’

But Zenyalena shook her head. ‘No. Keep going.’

‘Can we just drop Heike-Ann at a hospital, to make sure her baby’s OK?’

‘No. We keep going.’ Zenyalena’s tone was firm. Her eyes flashed, wide and intense, making clear to all she was mad enough to use the machine gun – perhaps even the nerve agent.

Glenn did as he was told, his eyes fixed on the road. Then, finally, he caught Myles’ glance in the mirror. Myles looked back at him. It was an ‘I’ll trust you if you trust me’ look. Within a second it was gone. But it was enough to give Myles hope. Or at least,
some
hope.

The minibus slowed as it reached its first traffic light. Myles wondered about trying to jump out, but he knew he couldn’t - not with his bad leg. He’d never escape alive.

The lights turned green, and the vehicle rumbled forward again, boxed in by traffic, as it drove towards the centre of Berlin. They continued down more streets, through the famous parts of the city – along the Kurfürstendamm, within sight of the Reichstag, and through the Brandenburg Gate. The oversized Russian embassy was nearby – the only building which really caught Zenyalena’s attention. Soon they were approaching Stolz’s old neighbourhood.

Finally, the minibus turned into Am Krusenick. Glenn rolled on to number 38. He parked up and put on the handbrake, then turned to Zenyalena for his next instructions.

Zenyalena’s eyes stared down at the American’s pockets. ‘You’ve still got the keys to this flat, haven’t you?’

Glenn paused before he replied. Myles could tell: he was wondering whether he could get away with a lie. But the Russian woman was watching him too closely. Slowly, Glenn nodded. He delved in and pulled them out, letting them jingle in his fingers.

Zenyalena carefully placed the bottle of nerve agent on her seat. She bent down to pick up the First World War machine gun again, then turned to the passengers in the back. ‘Everybody out.’

Pascal slid open the minibus door, then placed Heike-Ann’s healthy arm around his shoulder. Myles helped the Frenchman lift her down.

Zenyalena kept her distance, worried one of the team was going to rush at her to grab the gun. She scanned around, checking she wasn’t being watched from the street. She glanced up at windows in the buildings opposite. It was almost dark – even if there had been someone, they probably wouldn’t have seen the four men and one wounded woman being herded from the minibus at gunpoint. ‘Glenn: unlock Stolz’s flat,’ she ordered.

Glenn slotted the key into the first lock and turned it. The door to the block of flats swung open. He led the way into the lobby area. There he unlocked Stolz’s basement flat. It too opened, and Myles remembered the musty river smell which ran through the building.

Zenyalena’s face instructed the American to walk in. He obeyed, followed by Frank, with Myles and Pascal helping Heike-Ann. Zenyalena kept the gun on them all, silently watching them enter. ‘Gentlemen. I want you to take up this carpet and show me what’s underneath.’

Myles and Pascal rested Heike-Ann in one of the seats while Glenn kneeled down. He peeled back the edge of the carpet to reveal wooden floorboards.

Zenyalena pointed at them, her brow sweating with fear. ‘Pull them up.’

Glenn looked back at her, his face asking ‘how?’ The floorboards were nailed in place.

Zenyalena eyed Glenn suspiciously, then grabbed a pillow, which she held to the end of the gun: an improvised silencer. ‘Stay back,’ she said, aiming at the floor.

Glenn jumped away.

Zenyalena pulled the trigger, unleashing a short burst of bullets. Myles felt his ears pop while splinters flew into the air. Vibrations shook the room.

The Russian kept a tight grip on her gun, even though the barrel would have become scalding hot. She checked the ammunition belt: just a few rounds left, but it was all she needed to keep giving orders. She looked down at the shattered floorboards. ‘Now, take them up.’

This time Glenn obeyed, and began lifting the broken timber. Myles offered to help, but Zenyalena motioned with the gun barrel, instructing him to keep away.

As Glenn tugged at the broken wood, a dark space began to appear underneath. Myles peered into the hole. Concrete steps were leading down, into some sort of void.

Glenn looked back up to Zenyalena: as long as she held the gun, the American knew she was in control. ‘You want me to go down?’

Zenyalena considered the idea, then shook her head. ‘No. Myles: your turn.’

‘Down there?’

‘Yes, Englishman. Lead on.’

Myles tipped his head to one side, accepting the command but not sure how he was going to do it. Glenn shuffled aside, letting Myles through.

Still hobbling from his ruptured knee ligament, Myles edged towards the hole. He stepped down onto the first step, then the second, slowly descending into the dark. He had to duck his head to climb below the hole in the floorboards.

Downstairs was a basement like any other: the walls were damp and bare, there was a power socket and a cable, but nothing unusual. Then Myles noticed a hole in the concrete floor. It hadn’t been cut smoothly, probably just someone attacking the floor with a pickaxe. Stolz must have done it soon after he bought the flat, back in 1990. He would have been younger and fitter then. But he hadn’t needed to be strong: the concrete was thin, and – unusually for war concrete – it hadn’t been reinforced with steel.

It was a double floor…

Now Myles understood how Stolz had kept the bunker secret. In March or April 1945, when the Nazis knew the Russians were coming, they must have sealed the bunker with concrete. It had been done quickly – which was why there was no steel. But it was enough to fool the Soviets – they would have found only the basement with a concrete floor. Stolz’s secret would have remained hidden through the four decades of the Cold War. Then, in 1990, Stolz returned to break it open again. But to keep the bunker secret, he sealed off the whole basement with the floorboards at ground level. Not since the time of the Nazis would anybody but Stolz have seen whatever lay below.

Myles wondered what to do. He could go down, into the bunker - perhaps even try to escape. But would there be another exit? Unlikely: if there was, the bunker would have been discovered many years ago. Myles was probably standing over the only way in and the only way out.

He edged towards the cable and turned on the power at the socket. Electricity began to hum, and Myles saw light emerge from the void beneath him.

‘What’s going on down there?’ It was Zenyalena, calling from above.

Myles knew now wasn’t the time to lie. ‘There’s another level down, something below the basement.’

‘A bunker?’

‘I guess so,’ answered Myles, peering at vertical steps which led into whatever was beneath, a fixed ladder down through a manhole.

Zenyalena started to approach. She was still carrying the gun, and still looking suspicious. ‘Find out what’s down there,’ she ordered, tapping his side with the gun barrel.

Myles looked back at Zenyalena’s paranoid eyes. She had given up all pretence of being calm. Now she was pathological. There was no way Myles could refuse.

Careful to avoid sudden movements, Myles placed his good foot on the first rung, then lowered himself to allow his leg in a brace to take a lower rung. One step at a time, he kept descending until his whole body was inside the brightly lit bunker.

Zenyalena shouted down to him. ‘What’s inside?’

Myles tried to make it out. The first thing he saw was a bright yellow handle bearing the word ‘Vorsicht’ in Nazi-era lettering. He peered closer: it was the handle to some sort of emergency escape hatch. The small door had rusted, and had probably never been used.

The rest of the bunker was piled high with stacks of papers. Reams and reams, some filed between cardboard covers, others just stacked in rough piles. It was accompanied by the smell of old newspapers which had been allowed to become damp.

‘…. Looks like… just papers…. I think…’ He shook his head in disbelief.
A storehouse for bureaucrats…

He stepped off at the bottom and saw one of the cardboard covers. He wiped off the dust to reveal a swastika.
Nazi bureaucrats…

Zenyalena’s head was poking down from above. Her voice was edgy. ‘Well, what do the papers say?’

Myles picked up a file and opened it. The first sheet was titled ‘Hauptmann Gerhard Schnitzer, geb. 24. Februar 1910.’ Then there was a list of dates with a few words scribbled in German by each one. By the last date, 24, Dezember 1942, was simply a ‘†’ symbol, and the single word ‘Stalingrad’.

‘Myles, can you hear me? What do the papers say?’

‘Er, looks like old personnel records,’ he suggested. ‘German.’

He heard Zenyalena scuffle above him, but ignored it. He was too fascinated. What did these records mean? Why hadn’t the Nazis burned them, with all their other papers? And why had Stolz needed them so much?

He picked up the next file. Like the first, there was a large swastika on the front. Inside were papers for several soldiers – one page on each.

He turned the papers. Each page was a list of dates for a different soldier. Different birthdays, but always the same date of death. The file was a collection of people killed on 23
^rd
of July 1943, at Kursk - the largest tank battle in history.

He stared at one of the rough piles of paper. No cardboard cover on this, just a box to hold the sheets together. The top page had decayed too much to read, so he lifted it to read the one below.

The page had been signed with an illegible scribble and the time ‘14.18 Uhr’ next to it. Different handwriting had added at the bottom:

Myles wondered what the German text might mean. He lifted the next sheet.

And underneath, again:

He flicked through the next page, and the next. All ended with exactly the same date, and the same time.

What happened to all these people on the 27
^th
of January 1944, at two-thirty-five in the afternoon?

Then he noticed the ‘†’ symbol. The same symbol as on the Kursk and Stalingrad files of German soldiers.

Suddenly the realisation hit him. He felt his whole body judder, as he tried to contain his reaction to the pages he was holding.

Of course: all the people died. More precisely, they were executed. Myles was looking at interview notes taken minutes before these people were stampeded into gas chambers.

Part of him wanted to drop the pages in disgust – to get rid of them - but he knew he shouldn’t. There was something special about these records. All other records of the holocaust had been systematically destroyed. So why had a Nazi kept these?

Footsteps started clanging down from above. Glenn was descending the ladder to join him, followed by Frank and Pascal, who was helping Heike-Ann with the difficult steps. Heike-Ann was barely able to find her footing – she looked drowsy, and was paler than ever.

Then he saw Zenyalena above them all, herding them down with her gun.

Glenn reached the bottom first. ‘What is it Myles?’

Myles showed one of the papers to Glenn. ‘Death records.’

‘Death records?’

‘Yeah,’ said Myles, disgusted. ‘From the Nazis.’

Frank helped settle Heike-Ann on the floor, then leant towards one of the stacks of papers. ‘Well, what do they say?’

Myles waited until Zenyalena’s feet were on the ground before he explained. ‘They’re records from people who died. Some of them Nazis killed in battles, from Kursk and Stalingrad. But most from interviews with Jews just before they were….’ He didn’t say the last word – murdered. Somehow using normal words to describe the holocaust wasn’t right. All of them knew about the industrialised killing of so many millions of people. It couldn’t be described in any normal way.

The team gazed in awe at the musty room. The papers on all sides made it claustrophobic. Glenn checked two piles, then a third. Frank looked at one of the covers. Pascal tried to count how many columns of paper there were.

But Zenyalena was having none of it. ‘Just papers?’ she grunted. ‘Is that all?’ She lifted her boot and kicked a stack in frustration. It tumbled down, collapsing beside her. Dust lifted up into the air, and the smell of damp mould grew stronger.

As the papers fell, they revealed part of a machine, which had been hidden behind. With dials and numbers on the front, it looked like the mechanical desk from the underground cavern near Munich.