Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

His voice was theatrically severe, almost comic, but there was also a note of pride, even of relish, that was entirely the man.

‘…that you have acted as informer on this and other matters of first importance to the Reich, endangering the security of fellow officers…’

It was the same charge written a dozen different ways. Mohr was fidgeting impatiently with his pencil and Lange could hear coughs and the shuffling of feet behind him. At last Brand reached the end and, placing the sheet down, he leant across the table to glare at Lange: ‘Can you answer these charges?’

‘I would like to say…’ He could hear himself as if at the end of a long tunnel. Was that his voice? It was a guilty voice. No. No. ‘I would like to answer, yes. There was a crime, a terrible crime, a man murdered for a moment of weakness. Heine murdered. And my fault…’

‘That’s enough,’ snapped Brand. ‘You’re here to answer for yourself and…’

‘I am at fault yes, yes. At fault for letting it happen and yes, perhaps helping it to happen.’

There was a rumble of surprise at the quiet but naked defiance, the steel in Lange’s voice. No one expected it from the PK man.

‘And to my eternal shame…’

‘That’s enough,’ Brand shouted and he began rising from his chair, his face and neck an indignant pink. But a firm hand and a look from Mohr held him hovering over the table like a petulant schoolboy. And it was Mohr who now spoke to Lange:

‘You’ve made your view known. But there is only one question we are here to answer: did you give intelligence to the British about the proceedings of this council and the disciplining of Leutnant Heine?’

There was an insistent cold purpose in his question. The room was still. Lange could hear his own short breaths and feel the eyes of many boring into the back of his head. He had resolved to say what was right, to condemn what had passed without fear but now, in that silence, Mohr’s steady gaze upon him, he was afraid again, very, very afraid.

‘I believe, I…’ What could he say? What? ‘It was a crime and…’

‘The British are preparing a case. Did you provide them with intelligence? Did you speak of your comrades? Yes or no?’

Yes or no. Yes or no. It crackled distantly down the wire and through the small Bakelite headphones. Lindsay’s stomach was churning with anxiety as he leant towards the volume control on the receiver. It was almost time, almost time. Silence, then something that sounded a little like a choking cough and then uproar. Shouting, the screech of chairs, hissing, and noises it was impossible to place.

And then the calm voice of Mohr cut through all: ‘So to these charges against you, you plead guilty?’

Lange must have nodded because there were more hisses, shouts, an angry chorus of hate. And then silence. A complete empty silence. And a few seconds later a light buzzing. The line was dead. Lindsay spun round in his chair to look at Duncan: ‘For God’s sake. Can we get it back?’

‘Well?’ Duncan looked sharply at the young sergeant from Signals sitting at the receiver beside them.

‘It may come back, sir,’ he said weakly.

‘Two minutes. Two minutes. We can’t risk any more.’ Lindsay got to his feet to stand shuffling anxiously behind the Signalman as he tinkered with the set.

‘Let’s go now,’ said Duncan. ‘Now.’

‘No. We must see if…’

‘It’s back, sir.’

Lindsay snatched up his headphones and sat back at the table. Yes, yes. He could hear Brand, that pompous fool. Brand droning on about secrecy, the war being fought in the camp, the lives of their comrades, and the enemy’s spies: but Lange, what of Lange? He glanced across at Duncan who was bent over the sergeant’s shoulder, his hands pressing his headphones to his ears, a puzzled expression on his face. Why was Brand babbling on unchecked? He was addressing the room, not Lange. What was Mohr doing? The camp’s intelligence officer caught his eye at last and scrunched up his face in concern. And he was right, yes. Lindsay could sense there was something very wrong. Was Lange even in the room?

‘All right. That’s enough.’

Duncan ripped off his headphones: ‘Thank God yes. Let’s go.’

A shrill blast on a whistle, then a distant heavy thumping like native drums, wood on wood, something atavistic. Lange heard it as they half marched, half dragged him along the corridor, dark, stumbling, like a primitive sacrifice. Every grunt, every movement, every colour and shape, a rough flashing pattern, familiar but opaque with a fear he could taste, sweet in his mouth. Twenty metres, prisoners’ office on the right and the schoolroom, small pantry on the left, and at the end the heavy mahogany door to the servants’ quarters. Closer, closer, every step closer and he could hear the short anxious breaths of the men about him, hands tight on his arms and the collar of his jacket, and Bruns’s square head bobbing in front. And still the distant drumming, boom, boom, boom.

Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee …

Bruns was at the door and for a moment the hands loosened their grip as he was propelled through it into the servants’ passage.

… pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death .

And passed the kitchen and on, on to the washroom, a man in the shadows, blue on black. More banging, closer now, just a few metres down the passage. The door to the yard. The British. Lindsay. And why were they hammering on it?

Oh Mary be my strength .

Wet floor. White porcelain. A slash of violet light in the mirrors. A tap running. And more shadows, more men. Frightened faces but angry. They will stop now, they must. Arms tugged roughly back. The rope cutting into his wrists.

‘No, stop, stop.’

‘Fuck off, traitor.’ Dietrich’s saliva on his cheek. ‘Quick. Quick.’

A chair. Another rope. Someone with large practised hands knotting the rope. Koch.

Shouting in the passage. English. German. ‘Stop. Stop.’ And he knew he should struggle. Time. He needed time. And the things he could have done. Words he should have spoken. To lose hope. Life. Love. And the greatest of these is love. Hail Mary full of grace …

The noose in Dietrich’s hand too small and too stiff.

‘Fuck. Koch, do something about this.’

Shaking hands on the rope. Faces lost in shadow then close and very white. And the banging. Banging at the washroom door now.

‘There isn’t time. We can’t do it.’ Dietrich frantically pushing at someone and screaming: ‘Do it. That’s a fucking order.’

The rope fraying at the knot. The noose in front of his face. Pulling his hair. Pulling his head back. And the rope rough on his neck. Burning his neck.

‘The chair?’

‘No. No. No. Pull him up.’

The knot hard. Our Father, our Father … The knot nudging the back of his head. Tight. Tight. Tighter. Tighter.

… and at the hour of our death .

Fuck, fuck, fuck, what a shambles. Banging on the bloody washroom door like buggers at a rowdy rugby club while a man’s life was in the balance.

‘For God’s sake, hurry up,’ Lindsay shouted.

The Military Police sergeant swung the sledgehammer again. Boom against the lock, bouncing up and down the dark passage, a dull hollow echo that resonated like the torpedo that sank the Culloden . Duncan was standing beside him touching an angry cut in his lip. They had fought their way to the washroom, trading punches with some of the prisoners. Yes, a shambles, close to a riot. Doors barred. Soldiers armed with rifles in corridors and crowded rooms. No one with authority. He had left the arrangements to the Military Police. A shambles.