Winter of the World (64 page)

Unconsciously, Carla had been expecting a hilltop castle of forbidding grey stone, with barred windows and ironbound oak doors. But this was a Bavarian country house, with steep overhanging
roofs, wooden balconies, and a little bell tower. Surely nothing as horrible as child murder could go on here? It also seemed small, for a hospital. Then she saw that a modern extension had been
added to one side, with a tall chimney.

They dismounted and leaned their bikes against the side of the building. Carla’s heart was in her mouth as they walked up the steps to the entrance. Why were there no guards? Because no
one would be so foolhardy as to try to investigate the place?

There was no bell or knocker, but when Carla pushed the door it opened. She stepped inside, and Frieda followed. They found themselves in a cool hall with a stone floor and bare white walls.
There were several rooms off the hall, but all the doors were closed. A middle-aged woman in spectacles was coming down a broad staircase. She wore a smart grey dress. ‘Yes?’ she
said.

‘Hello,’ said Frieda casually.

‘What are you doing? You can’t come in here.’

Frieda and Carla had prepared a story. ‘I just wanted to visit the place where my brother died,’ Frieda said. ‘He was fifteen—’

‘This isn’t a public facility!’ the woman said indignantly.

‘Yes, it is.’ Frieda had been brought up in a wealthy family, and was not cowed by minor functionaries.

A nurse of about nineteen appeared from a side door and stared at them. The woman in the grey dress spoke to her. ‘Nurse König, fetch Herr Römer immediately.’

The nurse hurried away.

The woman said: ‘You should have written in advance.’

‘Did you not get my letter?’ said Frieda. ‘I wrote to the Senior Physician.’ This was not true: Frieda was improvising.

‘No such letter has been received!’ Clearly the woman felt that Frieda’s outrageous request could not possibly have gone unnoticed.

Carla was listening. The place was strangely quiet. She had dealt with physically and mentally handicapped people, adults and children, and they were not often silent. Even through these closed
doors she should have been able to hear shouts, laughter, crying, voices raised in protest, and nonsensical ravings. But there was nothing. It was more like a morgue.

Frieda tried a new tack. ‘Perhaps you can tell me where my brother’s grave is. I’d like to visit it.’

‘There are no graves. We have an incinerator.’ She immediately corrected herself. ‘A cremation facility.’

Carla said: ‘I noticed the chimney.’

Frieda said: ‘What happened to my brother’s ashes?’

‘They will be sent to you in due course.’

‘Don’t mix them up with anyone else’s, will you?’

The woman’s neck reddened in a blush, and Carla guessed they did mix up the ashes, figuring that no one would know.

Nurse König reappeared, followed by a burly man in the white uniform of a male nurse. The woman said: ‘Ah, Römer. Please escort these girls off the premises.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Frieda. ‘Are you quite sure you’re doing the right thing? I only wanted to see the place where my brother died.’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Then you won’t mind letting me know your name.’

There was a second’s hesitation. ‘Frau Schmidt. Now please leave us.’

Römer moved towards them in a menacing way.

‘We’re going,’ Frieda said frostily. ‘We have no intention of giving Herr Römer an excuse to molest us.’

The man changed course and opened the door for them.

They went out, climbed on their bikes, and rode down the drive. Frieda said: ‘Do you think she believed our story?’

‘Totally,’ said Carla. ‘She didn’t even ask our names. If she had suspected the truth she would have called the police right away.’

‘But we didn’t learn much. We saw the chimney. But we didn’t find anything we could call proof.’

Carla felt a bit down. Getting evidence was not as easy as it sounded.

They returned to the hostel. They washed and changed and went out in search of something to eat. The only café was the one with the grumpy proprietress. They ate potato pancakes with
sausage. Afterwards they went to the town’s bar. They ordered beers and spoke cheerfully to the other customers, but no one wanted to talk to them. This in itself was suspicious. People
everywhere were wary of strangers, for anyone might be a Nazi snitch, but even so Carla wondered how many towns there were where two young girls could spend an hour in a bar without anyone even
trying to flirt with them.

They returned to the hostel for an early night. Carla could not think what else to do. Tomorrow they would return home empty-handed. It seemed incredible that she should know about these awful
killings yet be unable to stop them. She felt so frustrated she wanted to scream.

It occurred to her that Frau Schmidt – if that really was her name – might have further thoughts about her visitors. At the time, she had taken Carla and Frieda for what they claimed
to be, but she might develop suspicions later, and call the police just to be safe. If that happened, Carla and Frieda would not be hard to find. There were just five people at the hostel tonight
and they were the only girls. She listened in fear for the fatal knock on the door.

If they were questioned, they would tell part of the truth, saying that Frieda’s brother and Carla’s godson had died at Akelberg, and they wanted to visit their graves, or at least
see the place where they died and spend a few minutes in remembrance. The local police might buy that story. But if they checked with Berlin they would swiftly learn the connection with Walter von
Ulrich and Werner Franck, two men who had been investigated by the Gestapo for asking disloyal questions about Akelberg. Then Carla and Frieda would be deep in trouble.

As they were getting ready to go to bed in the uncomfortable-looking bunks, there was a knock at the door.

Carla’s heart stopped. She thought of what the Gestapo had done to her father. She knew she could not withstand torture. In two minutes she would name every Swing Kid she knew.

Frieda, who was less imaginative, said: ‘Don’t look so scared!’ and opened the door.

It was not the Gestapo but a small, pretty, blonde girl. It took Carla a moment to recognize her as Nurse König, out of uniform.

‘I have to speak to you,’ she said. She was distressed, breathless and tearful.

Frieda invited her in. She sat on a bunk bed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress. Then she said: ‘I can’t keep it inside any longer.’

Carla glanced at Frieda. They were thinking the same thing. Carla said: ‘Keep what inside, Nurse König?’

‘My name is Ilse.’

‘I’m Carla and this is Frieda. What’s on your mind, Ilse?’

Ilse spoke in a voice so low they could hardly hear her. She said: ‘We kill them.’

Carla could hardly breathe. She managed to say: ‘At the hospital?’

Ilse nodded. ‘The poor people who come in on the grey buses. Children, even babies, and old people, grandmothers. They’re all more or less helpless. Sometimes they’re horrid,
dribbling and soiling themselves, but they can’t help it, and some of them are really sweet and innocent. It makes no difference – we kill them all.’

‘How do you do it?’

‘An injection of morphium-scopolamine.’

Carla nodded. It was a common anaesthetic, fatal in overdose. ‘What about the special treatments they’re supposed to have?’

Ilse shook her head. ‘There are no special treatments.’

Carla said: ‘Ilse, let me get this clear. Do they kill every patient that comes here?’

‘Every one.’

‘As soon as they arrive?’

‘Within a day, no more than two.’

It was what Carla had suspected but, even so, the stark reality was horrifying, and she felt nauseated.

After a minute she said: ‘Are there any patients there now?’

‘Not alive. We were giving injections this afternoon. That’s why Frau Schmidt was so frightened when you walked in.’

‘Why don’t they make it harder for strangers to get into the building?’

‘They think guards and barbed wire around a hospital would make it obvious that something sinister was going on. Anyway, no one ever tried to visit before you.’

‘How many people died today?’

‘Fifty-two.’

Carla’s skin crawled. ‘The hospital killed fifty-two people this afternoon, around the time we were there?’

‘Yes.’

‘So they’re all dead, now?’

Ilse nodded.

An intention had been germinating in Carla’s mind, and now she resolved to carry it out. ‘I want to see,’ she said.

Ilse looked frightened. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I want to go inside the hospital and see those corpses.’

‘They’re burning them already.’

‘Then I want to see that. Can you sneak us in?’

‘Tonight?’

‘Right now.’

‘Oh, God.’

Carla said: ‘You don’t have to do anything. You’ve already been brave, just by talking to us. If you don’t want to do any more, it’s okay. But if we’re going
to put a stop to this we need proof.’

‘Proof.’

‘Yes. Look, the government is ashamed of this project – that’s why it’s secret. The Nazis know that ordinary Germans won’t tolerate the killing of children. But
people prefer to believe it’s not happening, and it’s easy for them to dismiss a rumour, especially if they hear it from a young girl. So we have to prove it to them.’

‘I see.’ Ilse’s pretty face took on a look of grim determination. ‘All right, then. I’ll take you.’

Carla stood up. ‘How do you normally get there?’

‘Bicycle. It’s outside.’

‘Then we’ll all ride.’

They went out. Darkness had fallen. The sky was partly cloudy, and the starlight was faint. They used their cycle lights as they rode out of town and up the hill. When they came in sight of the
hospital they switched off their lights and continued on foot, pushing their bikes. Ilse took them by a forest path that led to the rear of the building.

Carla smelled an unpleasant odour, somewhat like a car’s exhaust. She sniffed.

Ilse whispered: ‘The incinerator.’

‘Oh, no!’

They hid the bikes in a shrubbery and walked silently to the back door. It was unlocked. They went in.

The corridors were bright. There were no shadowy corners: the place was lit like the hospital it pretended to be. If they met someone they would be seen clearly. Their clothes would give them
away immediately as intruders. What would they do then? Run, probably.

Ilse walked quickly along a corridor, turned a corner, and opened a door. ‘In here,’ she whispered.

They walked in.

Frieda let out a squeal of horror and covered her mouth.

Carla whispered: ‘Oh, my soul.’

In a large, cold room were about thirty dead people, all lying face up on tables, naked. Some were fat, some thin; some old and withered, some children, and one baby of about a year. A few were
bent and twisted, but most appeared physically normal.

Each one had a small sticking-plaster on the upper left arm, where the needle had gone in.

Carla heard Frieda crying softly.

She steeled her nerves. ‘Where are the others?’ she whispered.

‘Already gone to the furnace,’ Ilse replied.

They heard voices coming from behind the double door at the far end of the room.

‘Back outside,’ Ilse said.

They stepped into the corridor. Carla closed the door all but a crack, and peeped through. She saw Herr Römer and another man push a hospital trolley through the doors.

The men did not look in Carla’s direction. They were arguing about soccer. She heard Römer say: ‘It’s only nine years ago that we won the national championship. We beat
Eintracht Frankfurt two-nil.’

‘Yes, but half your best players were Jews, and they’ve all gone.’

Carla realized they were talking about the Bayern Munich team.

Römer said: ‘The old days will come back, if only we play the right tactics.’

Still arguing, the two men went to a table where a fat woman lay dead. They took her by the shoulders and knees, then unceremoniously swung her on to the trolley, grunting with the effort.

They moved the trolley to another table and put a second corpse on top of the first.

When they had three they wheeled the trolley out.

Carla said: ‘I’m going to follow them.’

She crossed the morgue to the double doors, and Frieda and Ilse followed her. They passed into an area that felt more industrial than medical: the walls were painted brown, the floor was
concrete, and there were store cupboards and tool racks.

They looked around a corner.

They saw a large room like a garage, with harsh lighting and deep shadows. The atmosphere was warm, and there was a faint smell of cooking. In the middle of the space was a steel box large
enough to hold a motor car. A metal canopy led from the top of the box through the roof. Carla realized she was looking at a furnace.

The two men lifted a body off the trolley and shifted it to a steel conveyor belt. Römer pushed a button on the wall. The belt moved, a door opened, and the corpse passed into the
furnace.

They put the next corpse on the belt.

Carla had seen enough.

She turned and motioned the others back. Frieda bumped into Ilse, who let out an involuntary cry. They all froze.

They heard Römer say: ‘What was that?’

‘A ghost,’ the other replied.

Römer’s voice was shaky. ‘Don’t joke about such things!’

‘Are you going to pick up the other end of this stiff, or what?’

‘All right, all right.’

The three girls hurried back to the morgue. Seeing the remaining bodies, Carla suffered a wave of grief about Ada’s Kurt. He had lain here, with a sticking-plaster on his arm, and had been
thrown on to the conveyor belt and disposed of like a bag of garbage. But you’re not forgotten, Kurt, she thought.

They went out into the corridor. As they turned towards the back door, they heard footsteps and the voice of Frau Schmidt. ‘What is taking those two men so long?’

They hurried along the corridor and through the door. The moon was out, and the park was brightly lit. Carla could see the shrubbery where they had hidden the bikes, two hundred yards away
across the grass.