Winter of the World (59 page)

‘In that hospital.’ Frieda was sobbing.

Carla recalled Werner telling her that Axel had been sent to the same Akelberg hospital as Kurt. ‘How did he die?’

‘Appendicitis.’

‘That’s terrible.’ Carla was sad for her friend, but also suspicious. She had had a bad feeling when Professor Willrich spoke to them a month ago about the new treatment for
Kurt. Had it been more experimental than he had let on? Could it have actually been dangerous? ‘Do you know any more?’

‘We just got a short letter. My father is enraged. He phoned the hospital but he wasn’t able to speak to the senior people.’

‘I’ll come round to your house. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

‘Thanks.’

Carla hung up and went into the kitchen. ‘Axel Franck has died at that hospital in Akelberg,’ she said.

Her father, Walter, was looking at the morning post. ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Poor Monika.’ Carla recalled that Axel’s mother, Monika Franck, had once been in love with
Walter, according to family legend. The look of concern on Walter’s face was so pained that Carla wondered if he had had a slight tendresse for Monika, despite being in love with Maud. How
complicated love was.

Carla’s mother, who was now Monika’s best friend, said: ‘She must be devastated.’

Walter looked down at the post again and said in a tone of surprise: ‘Here’s a letter for Ada.’

The room went quiet.

Carla stared at the white envelope as Ada took it from Walter.

Ada did not receive many letters.

Erik was home – it was the last day of his short leave – so there were four people watching as Ada opened the envelope.

Carla held her breath.

Ada drew out a typed letter on headed paper. She read the message quickly, gasped, then screamed.

‘No!’ said Carla. ‘It can’t be!’

Maud jumped up and put her arms around Ada.

Walter took the letter from Ada’s fingers and read it. ‘Oh, dear, how terribly sad,’ he said. ‘Poor little Kurt.’ He put the paper down on the breakfast table.

Ada began to sob. ‘My little boy, my dear little boy, and he died without his mother – I can’t bear it!’

Carla fought back tears. She felt bewildered. ‘Axel
and
Kurt?’ she said. ‘At the same time?’

She picked up the letter. It was printed with the name of the hospital and its address in Akelberg. It read:

It was signed by the Senior Physician.

Carla looked up. Her mother was sitting next to Ada, arm around her, holding her hand as she sobbed.

Carla was grief-stricken, but more alert than Ada. She spoke to her father in a shaky voice. ‘There’s something wrong.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Look again.’ She handed him the letter. ‘Appendicitis.’

‘What is the significance?’

‘Kurt had had his appendix removed.’

‘I remember,’ her father said. ‘He had an emergency operation, just after his sixth birthday.’

Carla’s sorrow was mixed with angry suspicion. Had Kurt been killed by a dangerous experiment which the hospital was now trying to cover up? ‘Why would they lie?’ she said.

Erik banged his fist on the table. ‘Why do you say it is a lie?’ he cried. ‘Why do you always accuse the establishment? This is obviously a mistake! Some typist has made a
copying error!’

Carla was not so sure. ‘A typist working in a hospital is likely to know what an appendix is.’

Erik said furiously: ‘You will seize upon even this personal tragedy as a way of attacking those in authority!’

‘Be quiet, you two,’ said their father.

They looked at him. There was a new tone in his voice. ‘Erik may be right,’ he said. ‘If so, the hospital will be perfectly happy to answer questions and give further details
of how Kurt and Axel died.’

‘Of course they will,’ said Erik.

Walter went on: ‘And if Carla is right, they will try to discourage inquiries, withhold information and intimidate the parents of the dead children by suggesting that their questions are
somehow illegitimate.’

Erik looked less comfortable about that.

Half an hour ago Walter had been a shrunken man. Now somehow he seemed to fill his suit again. ‘We will find out as soon as we start asking questions.’

Carla said: ‘I’m going to see Frieda.’

Her mother said: ‘Don’t you have to go to work?’

‘I’m on the late shift.’

Carla phoned Frieda, told her that Kurt was dead too, and said she was coming to talk about it. She put on her coat, hat and gloves then wheeled her bicycle outside. She was a fast rider and it
took her only a quarter of an hour to get to the Francks’ villa in Schöneberg.

The butler let her in and told her the family were still in the dining room. As soon as she walked in, Frieda’s father, Ludwig Franck, bellowed at her: ‘What did they tell you at the
Wannsee Children’s Home?’

Carla did not much like Ludwig. He was a right-wing bully and he had supported the Nazis in the early days. Perhaps he had changed his views: many businessmen had, by now, though they showed
little sign of the humility that ought to go with having been so wrong.

She did not answer immediately. She sat down at the table and looked at the family: Ludwig, Monika, Werner and Frieda, and the butler hovering in the background. She collected her thoughts.

‘Come on, girl, answer me!’ Ludwig demanded. He had in his hand a letter that looked very like Ada’s, and he was waving it angrily.

Monika put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Take it easy, Ludi.’

‘I want to know!’ he said.

Carla looked at his pink face and little black moustache. He was in an agony of grief, she saw. In other circumstances she would have refused to speak to someone so rude. But he had an excuse
for his bad manners, and she decided to overlook them. ‘The Director, Professor Willrich, told us there was a new treatment for Kurt’s condition.’

‘The same as he told us,’ said Ludwig. ‘What kind of treatment?’

‘I asked him that question. He said I would not be able to understand it. I persisted, and he said it involved drugs, but he did not give any further information. May I see your letter,
Herr Franck?’

Ludwig’s expression said he was the one who should be asking questions; but he handed the sheet of paper to Carla.

It was exactly the same as Ada’s, and Carla had a queer feeling that the typist had done several of them, just changing the names.

Franck said: ‘How can two boys have died of appendicitis at the same time? It’s not a contagious illness.’

Carla said: ‘Kurt certainly did not die of appendicitis, for he had no appendix. It was removed two years ago.’

‘Right,’ said Ludwig. ‘That’s enough talk.’ He snatched the letter from Carla’s hand. ‘I’m going to see someone in the government about
this.’ He went out.

Monika followed him, and so did the butler.

Carla went over to Frieda and took her hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ Frieda whispered.

Carla went to Werner. He stood up and put his arms around her. She felt a tear fall on her forehead. She was gripped by she did not know what intense emotion. Her heart was full of grief, yet
she thrilled to the pressure of his body against hers, and the gentle touch of his hands.

After a long moment Werner stepped back. He said angrily: ‘My father has phoned the hospital twice. The second time, they told him they had no more information and hung up on him. But
I’m going to find out what happened to my brother, and I won’t be brushed off.’

Frieda said: ‘Finding out won’t bring him back.’

‘I still want to know. If necessary, I’ll go to Akelberg.’

Carla said: ‘I wonder if there’s anyone in Berlin who could help us.’

‘It would have to be someone in the government,’ Werner said.

Frieda said: ‘Heinrich’s father is in the government.’

Werner snapped his fingers. ‘The very man. He used to belong to the Centre Party, but he’s a Nazi now, and something important in the Foreign Office.’

Carla said: ‘Will Heinrich take us to see him?’

‘He will if Frieda asks him,’ said Werner. ‘Heinrich will do anything for Frieda.’

Carla could believe that. Heinrich had always been intense about everything he did.

‘I’ll phone him now,’ said Frieda.

She went into the hall, and Carla and Werner sat down side by side. He put his arm around her, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. She did not know whether these signs of affection were
merely a side-effect of the tragedy, or something more.

Frieda came back in and said: ‘Heinrich’s father will see us right away if we go over there now.’

They all got into Werner’s sports car, squeezing on to the front seat. ‘I don’t know how you keep this car going,’ Frieda said as he pulled away. ‘Even Father
can’t get petrol for private use.’

‘I tell my boss it’s for official business,’ he said. Werner worked for an important general. ‘But I don’t know how much longer I can get away with it.’

The von Kessel family lived in the same suburb. Werner drove there in five minutes.

The house was luxurious, though smaller than the Francks’. Heinrich met them at the door and showed them into a living room with leather-bound books and an old German woodcarving of an
eagle.

Frieda kissed him. ‘Thank you for doing this,’ she said. ‘It probably wasn’t easy – I know you don’t get on so well with your father.’

Heinrich beamed with pleasure.

His mother brought them coffee and cake. She seemed a warm, simple person. When she had served them she left, like a maid.

Heinrich’s father, Gottfried, came in. He had the same thick straight hair, but it was silver instead of black.

Heinrich said: ‘Father, here are Werner and Frieda Franck, whose father manufactures People’s Radios.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Gottfried. ‘I have seen your father in the Herrenklub.’

‘And this is Carla von Ulrich – I believe you know her father, too.’

‘We were colleagues at the German embassy in London,’ Gottfried said carefully. ‘That was in 1914.’ Clearly he was not so pleased to be reminded of his association with a
social democrat. He took a piece of cake, clumsily dropped it on the rug, tried ineffectually to pick up the crumbs, then abandoned the effort and sat back.

Carla thought: What is he afraid of?

Heinrich got straight down to the purpose of the visit. ‘Father, I expect you’ve heard of Akelberg.’

Carla was watching Gottfried closely. There was a split-second flash of something in his expression, but he quickly adopted a pose of indifference. ‘A small town in Bavaria?’ he
said.

‘There is a hospital there,’ said Heinrich. ‘For mentally handicapped people.’

‘I don’t think I was aware of that.’

‘We think something strange is going on there, and we wondered if you might know about it.’

‘I certainly don’t. What seems to be happening?’

Werner broke in. ‘My brother died there, apparently of appendicitis. Herr von Ulrich’s maid’s child died at the same time in the same hospital of the same illness.’

‘Very sad – but a coincidence, surely?’

Carla said: ‘My maid’s child did not have an appendix. It was removed two years ago.’

‘I understand why you are keen to ascertain the facts,’ said Gottfried. ‘This is deeply unsatisfactory. However, the likeliest explanation would seem to be clerical
error.’

Werner said: ‘If so, we would like to know.’

‘Of course. Have you written to the hospital?’

Carla said: ‘I wrote to ask when my maid could visit her son. They never replied.’

Werner said: ‘My father telephoned the hospital this morning. The Senior Physician slammed the phone down on him.’

‘Oh, dear. Such bad manners. But, you know, this is hardly a Foreign Office matter.’

Werner leaned forward. ‘Herr von Kessel, is it possible that both boys were involved in a secret experiment that went wrong?’

Gottfried sat back. ‘Quite impossible,’ he said, and Carla had a feeling he was telling the truth. ‘That is definitely not happening.’ He sounded relieved.

Werner looked as if he had run out of questions, but Carla was not satisfied. She wondered why Gottfried seemed so happy about the assurance he had just given. Was it because he was concealing
something worse?

She was struck by a possibility so appalling that she could hardly contemplate it.

Gottfried said: ‘Well, if that’s all . . .’

Carla said: ‘You’re very sure, sir, that they were not killed by an experimental therapy that went wrong?’

‘Very sure.’

‘To know for certain that is
not
true, you must have some knowledge of what
is
being done at Akelberg.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he said, but all his tension had returned, and she knew she was on to something.

‘I remember seeing a Nazi poster,’ she went on. It was this memory that had triggered her dreadful thought. ‘There was a picture of a male nurse and a mentally handicapped man.
The text said something like: ‘Sixty thousand Reichsmarks is what this person suffering from hereditary defects costs the people’s community during his lifetime. Comrade, that is your
money too!’ It was an advertisement for a magazine, I think.’

‘I have seen some of that propaganda,’ Gottfried said disdainfully, as if it were nothing to do with him.

Carla stood up. ‘You’re a Catholic, Herr von Kessel, and you brought up Heinrich in the Catholic faith.’

Gottfried made a scornful noise. ‘Heinrich says he’s an atheist now.’

‘But you’re not. And you believe that human life is sacred.’

‘Yes.’

‘You say that the doctors at Akelberg are not testing dangerous new therapies on handicapped people, and I believe you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But are they doing something else? Something worse?’

‘No, no.’

‘Are they deliberately
killing
the handicapped?’