The Serpent's Egg (24 page)

“Ask the general if I’ve understood correctly. He seems to be suggesting an unprovoked first strike against the Soviet Union prior to any declaration of hostile intent either from them or from us.”

The Air Commodore’s aide translated the question in stuttering school French, and the French general replied with much manual gesticulation. The Air Commodore tried to interpret the Frenchman’s reply through his body language, but without success.

“He confirmed what you said, sir. A first strike, a surprise attack. He is adamant that anything less surreptitious would be doomed to failure. He says facing the combined armies of the Germans and the Soviets places both Britain and France in an unsustainable position.”

The French general shrugged. “
Oui, situation absolument impossible.
”

“Ask him if he has any concept of the rules of war. Ask him if he has read the Hague Convention on the conduct of war, which requires a declaration of intent before any hostile action. An attack of the kind that he is suggesting would be in breach of one of the fundamental tenets of that law. Ask him that.”

The aide passed on the message, which the French general had understood perfectly well. The Frenchman shrugged again. He stubbed out his foul-smelling cigarette in the Air Commodore’s ashtray and immediately lit another one.

His next outpouring translated as, “Anything less surreptitious would be a pointless act of suicide, an act of supreme madness.”

The Air Commodore considered his next words carefully. The French general had a point. “Tell him… Tell him we are in basic agreement. Ask him to develop the idea. We’d like a written proposal for an action plan that we can discuss with the War Office.”

The aide translated.

“Tell the general I’ll set up a meeting of the entire Joint Forces Contingency Committee when he has something concrete to discuss.”

Afterwards, the Air Commodore thought about what he’d said. Surely, any surprise attack on such an insuperable enemy would be doomed to failure. Their best course of action might be an immediate, unequivocal and abject surrender.

Chapter 69

October 1939

On a dark, stormy Sunday night in early October, Anna shook Max awake. “There’s someone at the door.”

“Who could it be at this hour? What time is it?”

“It’s after midnight.”

The wind and rain battered at the window. He sank lower under the covers. “Maybe they’ll go away.”

They hammered on the door again. Max slipped some clothes on. “Who is it?” he said through the closed door.

“Open the door, Max.”

Max slid the bolt and opened the door. He found Bruno on the doorstep, looked more disheveled than usual. “How did you get into the building? The concierge must be asleep.”

“Never mind that. I need your help. Put your shoes on and come with me.”

“It’s the middle of the night, Bruno, and it’s stormy outside. Can’t it wait until the morning, whatever it is?”

“No, it can’t. Let’s go.”

He went into the bedroom to find his shoes.

A sleepy Anna said, “Who is it, Max?”

“I have to go out.”

“Max…?”

“I won’t be long. Go back to sleep.”

Bruno had a red Volkswagen, the people’s car. Holding the doors against the high wind, they ducked into the car. Max was aware of a second man huddled in the back seat. Bruno started the engine and set off through the storm. He drove east under a heavy blanket of cloud, toward a dim glow in the sky.

“What’s this all about, Bruno?”

Bruno made no reply. They passed through the center of the city, deserted apart from one early coal dray on its way to load up for the day’s deliveries. Some distance to the east of the city, Bruno stopped the car and switched off the engine.

“You know I trust you, Max. Can I rely on your absolute discretion?”

The rain hammered on the roof and butterflies stirred in Max’s stomach. Without the car lights and the windscreen wipers, there was precious little light in the car, but Max could see Bruno’s eyes reflecting light from somewhere. He glanced at the man in the back seat and got an impression of a big man with the muscles of a weightlifter. “What’s this all about, Bruno?”

“There’s a body in the trunk. I want you to help us dispose of it.”

The butterflies in his stomach took flight. “Whose body is it? You’ve killed someone? Why, what did he do?”

“He was a traitor, a Gestapo informer. That’s all you need to know.”

“Shit, Bruno, why involve me?”

“I needed someone I can trust. Can I trust you, Comrade?”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not a member of your Party.”

“Can I trust you?”

“I suppose you’re going to have to, now that you’ve told me you have a body in the trunk.”

Bruno and Max got out of the car. Bruno held the door open while the big man in the back climbed out. Then he opened the trunk and pulled out two shovels. He handed one to Max and the other to the muscleman and they stepped over a low stone wall into a church cemetery. Tombstones stood about silently in the rain, the newer ones erect, the older ones, weathered, made of gray stone, leaning at crazy angles. A sign at the entrance to the church read: Holy Cross Roman Catholic Church. It showed the times of the Sunday services and the name of the Parish Priest: Father Schmitt.

Bruno led the way to a recent grave. He threw the flowers to one side and retreated to shelter under the wall of the church. Max and Muscleman began to dig. The rain continued to pour down. The soil was heavy, saturated with water. Both men were soaked to the skin within a minute. Within 20, they were both caked in mud from head to toe. The hole was long and wide enough for a body.

Muscleman stopped digging and straightened his back. Bruno came over to inspect their work. “It needs to be deeper. Dig deeper.”

The big man climbed out and Max continued digging on his own. As he worked, rivulets of rainwater ran down the sides, depositing wet soil back into the hole. It crossed his mind that he might be digging his own grave. He’d had no more than a quick glimpse inside the trunk. He hadn’t seen a body, only what looked like a roll of carpet.

Max’s shovel struck the lid of a coffin.

“That’s it,” said Bruno. “You can stop digging. Come on, give me a hand.”

Bruno opened the trunk again. The roll of carpet clearly contained a body, a pair of black shoes protruding from one end.

Muscleman took the end with the head, Max the other.

“On three. One. Two. Three. Lift.”

They lifted carpet and body out, carried it across to the grave and dropped it in. The rain pounding on the carpet made a pattering noise that seemed totally at odds with the environment and loud enough to attract attention. Max’s end fell outside the hole. Muscleman climbed down and tugged at the carpet.

“Help Edmund, Max.”

Max stood on the coffin lid beside muscleman, Edmund. He took a handful of carpet and they pulled the body into position in the grave. Max could see the top of the head. He recognized the tonsure of black hair. “It’s Vigo! You’ve killed Father Vigo.”

Part 4

Chapter 70

October 1939

Bruno hissed, “Keep your voice down. Now fill it in.”

They climbed out and worked their shovels together to cover the body. Max was shaking with emotion, his heart racing, although he couldn’t put a name to what he felt.

As they toiled, the rain eased and then stopped. The wind continued to howl around the tombstones.

All three got back in the car, Max in the back this time. They headed west, dawn light emerging from under the blanket of cloud in the sky behind them.

“Tell me why.” Max struggled to keep his voice under control. “Tell me why you killed Father Vigo.”

“He was a Gestapo informer. We have suspected him for some time. Yesterday, we put the final piece of the puzzle in place.”

Sitting in the front passenger seat, Edmund grunted agreement.

“You tortured him?” Max’s blood boiled. These Communists were no better than the Brownshirts!

“We didn’t have to torture him. The evidence was clear.”

“What evidence?”

Edmund answered in a surprisingly high-pitched voice,
“We found a map in the parish house.”

“You killed him because of a map?”

Both men clammed up again. Then Bruno said,
“We had other evidence. Vigo was the worst kind of wolf, a wolf disguised as a sheep.”

“I can’t believe that.” Max was shouting. “Vigo worked tirelessly for the Red Orchestra. He delivered hundreds of leaflets. He took countless risks. How could he have been a traitor?”

Bruno turned his head, taking his eyes from the road. “What do you think the Red Orchestra is? It’s a Communist Resistance movement. And what do you think is the number one enemy of the Roman Catholic Church?” He spat the words out. “Every Roman Catholic priest is dedicated, from the day of his ordination, to the absolute destruction of Communism. This is their secret mission in life.”

Max was silent after that. Could it be true? Could Vigo, his friend and companion, the man who stood by Delma when she arrived in a foreign land as an orphaned teenager – could this man have been working secretly to bring down the Communist Resistance all this time?

#

Anna was horrified when she saw the mud on his clothes. “Where were you? What were you doing all that time?”

Max stripped off his clothes. “We’ll talk about it tonight after work.”

“We’ll talk about it now, Max. How could I get back to sleep not knowing what mischief you’ve gotten up to?”

He left his clothes out to dry and went to bed. She got in beside him. “Tell me, Max.”

“I’m tired, Anna, just let me sleep. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning, I promise.”

She relented, and Max fell into a deep sleep.

She got up early and checked his muddy clothes. They were nearly dry. She used a stiff brush to scrub the dried mud from them. Then she put the clothes in a basin to soak, and cleaned his shoes.

Next, she prepared his breakfast. When the food was ready she woke him. Max leapt out of bed. He got dressed and sat at the table. She waited patiently while he devoured his food. When he’d finished, she said, “Now will you tell me what happened last night?”

Max hesitated. She locked her eyes onto his and waited for an answer.

“That was one of the Communists at the door. He needed my help.”

“With what?”

He blinked and his eyes darted away. “The Communists killed a man, Anna. They said he was a traitor. I had to help them dispose of the body.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. “You went out in a storm in the middle of the night and… what? Buried a body!”

“I didn’t have a choice. They said they needed my help. They didn’t tell me why until it was too late. I couldn’t refuse.”

“Where was this? Look at me, Max.”

He met her gaze again. “Holy Cross Church cemetery. It’s a long way from here.”

She clenched her fists. “Didn’t we agree that we would act together in future? That you wouldn’t take any major decisions without discussing it with me first?”

He looked at his watch. “I have to get to work. We’ll talk about it tonight.” He kissed her on the cheek and was gone.

Anna left the apartment shortly after Max. She usually took the tram to work, but today she walked. She needed time to think.

What had she married?

I thought I knew Max, but first he admitted he was mixed up with Communist subversives. That was bad enough. But now he’s gone out in the dead of night to bury someone!

Her head was reeling.

Mama was right. I should never have married him.

#

Max called Greta and they arranged to meet at the canal on his way home from work.

“Tell me why Vigo was killed.”

“I’m sorry, Max, I know you liked him. I asked Bruno and his comrades to find out who betrayed the location of the Hectograph to the Gestapo. They started with a list of three names. Vigo, Edmund and you.”

Max opened his mouth to object, but Greta continued, “I told them you didn’t know where the printer was located. That left two names. They investigated and decided Vigo was the culprit.”

“Based on what evidence?”

“They broke into the parish house and found a map of the city. The map had a pinhole marking the location of the printer.”

Max was silent for a few moments while he absorbed this information. “You’re telling me they killed him because of a pinhole in a map? How do they know that Vigo put the pinhole there?”

“Who else could have put it there?”

“Edmund, maybe? Was he there when they found the map?”

Chapter 71

October 1939

At the police station on Storkowerstrasss, Kriminal Kommissar Erhart Neumann approached the booking desk. “Anything I should know about, Rainer?”

With two hours left on his shift, the desk sergeant had one eye on the clock. A week of wind and rain had been followed by two nights of extreme Brownshirt activity. The station was inundated with floods of complaining citizens. Neumann marveled at the calm way the desk sergeant dealt with the public, entering everything into the incident book with endless patience.