Winter of the World (67 page)

Carla had not known that.

‘I’m not a good Catholic,’ Ilse went on.

‘God is good, not us, my daughter,’ said Peter piously.

Ilse said: ‘But I knew that what I was doing was a sin. Yet I did it, because they told me to, and I was frightened.’ She began to cry.

‘What did you do?’

‘I killed people. Oh, Father, will God forgive me?’

The priest stared at the young nurse. He could not dismiss this as propaganda: he was looking at a soul in torment. He went pale.

The others were silent. Carla held her breath.

Ilse said: ‘The handicapped people are brought to the hospital in grey buses. They don’t have special treatment. We give them an injection, and they die. Then we cremate them.’
She looked up at Peter. ‘Will I ever be forgiven for what I have done?’

He opened his mouth to speak. His words caught in his throat, and he coughed. At last he said quietly: ‘How many?’

‘Usually four. Buses, I mean. There are about twenty-five patients in a bus.’

‘A hundred people?’

‘Yes. Every week.’

Peter’s proud composure had vanished. His face was pale grey, and his mouth hung open. ‘A hundred handicapped people a week?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘What sort of handicap?’

‘All sorts, mental and physical. Some senile old people, some deformed babies, men and women, paralysed or retarded or just helpless.’

He had to keep repeating it. ‘And the staff of the hospital kill them all?’

Ilse sobbed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I knew it was wrong.’

Carla watched Peter. His supercilious air had gone. It was a remarkable transformation. After years of hearing the prosperous Catholics of this sylvan suburb confess their little sins, he had
suddenly been confronted with raw evil. And he was shocked to his core.

But what would he do?

Peter stood up. He took Ilse by the hands and raised her from her seat. ‘Come back to the church,’ he said. ‘Confess to your priest. God will forgive you. This much I
know.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

He released her hands and looked at Heinrich. ‘It may not be so simple for the rest of us,’ he said.

Then he turned his back on them and knelt to pray again.

Carla looked at Heinrich, who shrugged. They got up and left the little room, Carla with her arm around the weeping Ilse.

Carla said: ‘We’ll stay for the service. Perhaps he’ll speak to us again afterwards.’

The four of them walked into the nave of the church. Ilse stopped crying and became calmer. Frieda held Heinrich’s arm. They took seats among the gathering congregation, prosperous men and
plump women and restless children in their best clothes. People such as these would never kill the handicapped, Carla thought. Yet their government did, on their behalf. How had this happened?

She did not know what to expect of Father Peter. Clearly he had believed what they had told him, in the end. He had wanted to dismiss them as politically motivated, but Ilse’s sincerity
had convinced him. He had been horrified. But he had not made any promises, except that God would forgive Ilse.

Carla looked around the church. The decoration was more colourful than what she was used to in Protestant churches. There were more statues and paintings, more marble and gilding and banners and
candles. Protestants and Catholics had fought wars about such trivia, she recalled. How strange it seemed, in a world where children could be murdered, that anyone should care about candles.

The service began. The priests entered in their robes, Father Peter the tallest among them. Carla could not read anything in his facial expression except stern piety.

She sat indifferent through the hymns and prayers. She had prayed for her father, and two hours later had found him cruelly beaten and dying on the floor of their home. She missed him every day,
sometimes every hour. Praying had not saved him, nor would it protect those deemed useless by the government. Action was needed, not words.

Thinking of her father brought her brother, Erik, to mind. He was somewhere in Russia. He had written a letter home, jubilantly celebrating the rapid progress of the invasion, and angrily
refusing to believe that Walter had been murdered by the Gestapo. Their father had obviously been released unharmed by the Gestapo and then attacked in the street by criminals or Communists or
Jews, he asserted. He was living in a fantasy, beyond the reach of reason.

Was the same true of Father Peter?

Peter mounted the pulpit. Carla had not known he was due to preach a sermon. She wondered what he would say. Would he be inspired by what he had heard this morning? Would he speak of something
irrelevant, the virtue of modesty or the sin of envy? Or would he close his eyes and devoutly thank God for the German army’s continuing victories in Russia?

He stood tall in the pulpit and swept the church with a gaze that might have been arrogant, or proud, or defiant.

‘The fifth commandment says: “Thou shalt not kill”.’

Carla met Heinrich’s eye. What was Peter going to say?

His voice rang out between the echoing stones of the nave. ‘There is a place in Akelberg, Bavaria, where our government is breaking the commandment a hundred times a week!’

Carla gasped. He was doing it – he was preaching a sermon against the programme! This could change everything.

‘It makes no difference that the victims are handicapped, or mentally ill, or incapable of feeding themselves, or paralysed.’ Peter was letting his anger show. ‘Helpless babies
and senile old people are all God’s children, and their lives are as sacred as yours and mine.’ His voice rose in volume. ‘To kill them is a mortal sin!’ He lifted his right
arm and made a fist, and his voice shook with emotion. ‘I say to you that if we do nothing about it, we sin just as much as the doctors and nurses who administer the lethal injections. If we
remain silent . . .’ He paused. ‘If we remain silent, we are murderers too!’

(xii)

Inspector Thomas Macke was furious. He had been made to look a fool in the eyes of Superintendent Kringelein and the rest of his superiors. He had assured them he had
plugged the leak. The secret of Akelberg – and hospitals of the same kind in other parts of the country – was safe, he had said. He had tracked down the three troublemakers, Werner
Franck, Pastor Ochs and Walter von Ulrich, and in different ways he had silenced each of them.

And yet the secret had come out.

The man responsible was an arrogant young priest called Peter.

Father Peter was in front of Macke now, naked, strapped by wrists and ankles to a specially constructed chair. He was bleeding from the ears, nose, and mouth, and had vomit all down his chest.
Electrodes were attached to his lips, his nipples and his penis. A strap around his forehead prevented him from breaking his neck while the convulsions shook him.

A doctor sitting beside the priest checked his heart with a stethoscope and looked dubious. ‘He can’t stand much more,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Father Peter’s seditious sermon had been taken up elsewhere. The Bishop of Münster, a much more important clergyman, had preached a similar sermon, denouncing the T4 programme. The
bishop had called upon Hitler to save the people from the Gestapo, cleverly implying that the Führer could not possibly know about the programme, thereby offering Hitler a ready-made
alibi.

His sermon had been typed out and duplicated and passed from hand to hand all over Germany.

The Gestapo had arrested every person found in possession of a copy, but to no avail. It was the only time in the history of the Third Reich that there had been a public outcry against any
government action.

The clampdown was savage, but it did no good: the duplicates of the sermon continued to proliferate, more clergymen prayed for the handicapped, and there was even a protest march in Akelberg. It
was out of control.

And Macke was to blame.

He bent over Peter. The priest’s eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow, but he was conscious. Macke shouted in his ear: ‘Who told you about Akelberg?’

There was no reply.

Peter was Macke’s only lead. Investigations in the town of Akelberg had turned up nothing of significance. Reinhold Wagner had been told a story about two girl cyclists who had visited the
hospital, but no one knew who they were; and another story about a nurse who had resigned suddenly, writing a letter saying she was getting married in haste, but not revealing who the husband was.
Neither clue led anywhere. In any case, Macke felt sure this calamity could not be the work of a gaggle of girls.

Macke nodded to the technician operating the machine. He turned a knob.

Peter screamed in agony as the electrical current coursed through his body, torturing his nerves. He shook as if in a fit, and the hair on his head stood up.

The operator turned the current off.

Macke screamed: ‘Give me his name!’

At last Peter opened his mouth.

Macke leaned closer.

Peter whispered: ‘No man.’

‘A woman, then! Give me the name!’

‘It was an angel.’

‘Damn you to hell!’ Macke seized the knob and turned it. ‘This goes on until you tell me!’ he yelled, as Peter shuddered and screamed.

The door opened. A young detective looked in, turned pale, and beckoned to Macke.

The technician turned the current off, and the screaming stopped. The doctor leaned forward to check Peter’s heart.

The detective said: ‘Excuse me, Inspector Macke, but you’re wanted by Superintendent Kringelein.’

‘Now?’ said Macke irritably.

‘That’s what he said, sir.’

Macke looked at the doctor, who shrugged. ‘He’s young,’ he said. ‘He’ll be alive when you get back.’

Macke left the room and went upstairs with the detective. Kringelein’s office was on the first floor. Macke knocked and went in. ‘The damn priest hasn’t talked yet,’ he
said without preamble. ‘I need more time.’

Kringelein was a slight man with spectacles, clever but weak-willed. A late convert to Nazism, he was not a member of the elite SS. He lacked the fervour of enthusiasts such as Macke.
‘Don’t bother any further with that priest,’ he said. ‘We’re no longer interested in any of the clergymen. Throw them in camps and forget them.’

Macke could not believe his ears. ‘But these people have conspired to undermine the Führer!’

‘And they have succeeded,’ said Kringelein. ‘Whereas you have failed.’

Macke suspected that Kringelein was privately pleased about this.

‘A decision has been made at the top,’ the superintendent went on. ‘Aktion T4 has been cancelled.’

Macke was flabbergasted. The Nazis never allowed their decisions to be swayed by the misgivings of the ignorant. ‘We didn’t get where we are by kowtowing to public opinion!’ he
said.

‘We have this time.’

‘Why?’

‘The Führer neglected to explain his decision to me personally,’ Kringelein said sarcastically. ‘But I can guess. The programme has attracted remarkably angry protests
from a normally passive public. If we persist with it, we risk an open confrontation with churches of all denominations. That would be a bad thing. We must not weaken the unity and determination of
the German people – particularly right now, when we are at war with the Soviet Union, our strongest enemy yet. So the programme is cancelled.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Macke, controlling his anger. ‘Will there be anything else?’

‘Dismissed,’ said Kringelein.

Macke went to the door.

‘Macke.’

He turned. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Change your shirt.’

‘My shirt?’

‘There’s blood on it.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

Macke stamped down the stairs, boiling. He returned to the basement chamber. Father Peter was still alive.

Raging, he yelled again: ‘Who told you about Akelberg?’

There was no reply.

He turned the current up to maximum.

Father Peter screamed for a long time; then, at last, he fell into a final silence.

(xiii)

The villa where the Franck family lived was set in a small park. Two hundred yards from the house, on a slight rise, was a little pagoda, open on all sides, with seats. As
children Carla and Frieda had pretended it was their country house, and had played for hours pretending to have grand parties where dozens of servants waited on their glamorous guests. Later it
became their favourite place to sit and talk where no one could hear them.

‘The first time I sat on this bench, my feet didn’t reach the floor,’ Carla said.

Frieda said: ‘I wish we could go back to those days.’

It was a sultry afternoon, overcast and humid, and they both wore sleeveless dresses. They were in sombre mood. Father Peter was dead: he had committed suicide in custody, having become
depressed about his crimes, according to the police. Carla wondered if he had been beaten as her father had. It seemed dreadfully likely.

There were dozens more in police cells all over Germany. Some had protested publicly about the killing of the handicapped, others had done no more than pass round copies of Bishop von
Galen’s sermon. She wondered if all of them would be tortured. She wondered how long she would escape such a fate.

Werner came out of the house with a tray. He carried it across the lawn to the pagoda. Cheerily he said: ‘How about some lemonade, girls?’

Carla looked away. ‘No, thank you,’ she said coldly. She did not understand how he could pretend to be her friend after the cowardice he had shown.

Frieda said: ‘Not for me.’

‘I hope we’re not bad friends,’ Werner said, looking at Carla.

How could he say such a thing? Of course they were bad friends.

Frieda said: ‘Father Peter is dead, Werner.’

Carla added: ‘Probably tortured to death by the Gestapo, because he refused to accept the murder of people such as your brother. My father is dead, too, for the same reason. Lots of other
people are in jail or in camps. But you kept your cushy desk job, so that’s all right.’

Werner looked hurt. That surprised Carla. She had expected defiance, or at least an effort at insouciance. But he seemed genuinely upset. He said: ‘Don’t you think we each have our
different ways of doing what we can?’