Frederick Forsyth - The Odessa File

So I joined in. There we were, singing it in the men’s room. Then he clapped me on the back, and said, ‘Not a word, Kolb,’ and went out. I didn’t think any more about it till I got into trouble. Then I thought-well, he might have been in the SS like me. So I went to him for help.”

“And he sent you to me?” Miller nodded.

“What was the name of this Jewish orderly?”

“Hartstein, Sir.”

“And the convalescent clinic you were sent to?”

“The Arcadia Clinic, at Delmenborst, just outside Bremen.”

The lawyer nodded again, made a few notes on a sheet of paper taken from a desk, and rose. “Stay here,” he said and left again.

He crossed the passage and entered his study. From the telephone information operator be elicited the numbers of the Eberhardt Bakery, the Bremen General Hospital, and the Arcadia Clinic at Delmenhorst.

He called the bakery first.

Eberhardt’s secretary was most helpful. “I’m afraid Herr Eberhardt is away, Sir. No, he can’t be contacted, he has taken his usual winter cruise to the Caribbean with Frau Eberhardt. He’ll be back in four weeks. Can I be of any assistance?”

The lawyer assured her she could not and hung up. Next he dialed the Bremen General and asked for Personnel and Staff.

“This is the Department of Social Security, Pensions Section,” he said smoothly. “I just wanted to confirm that you have a ward orderly on the staff by the name of Hartstein.”

There was a pause while the girl at the other end went through the staff file. “Yes, we do,” she said. “David Hartstein.”

“Thank you,” said the lawyer in Nuremberg and hung up. He dialed the same number again and asked for the registrar’s office.

“This is the secretary of the Eberhardt Baking Company,” he said. “I just wanted to check on the progress of one of our staff who has been in your hospital with a tumor in the intestine. Can you tell me of his progress? Rolf Gunther Kolb.”

There was another pause. The girl Ming clerk got out the file on Rolf Gunther Kolb and glanced at the last page.

“He’s been discharged,” she told the caller. “His condition improved to a point where he could be transferred to a convalescent clinic.”

“Excellent,” said the lawyer. “I’ve been away on my annual skiing vacation, so I haven’t caught up yet. Can you tell me which clinic?”

“The Arcadia, at Delmenhorst,” said the girl.

The lawyer hung up again and dialed the Arcadia Clinic. A girl answered.

After listening to the request, she turned to the doctor by her side. She covered the mouthpiece. “There’s a question about that man you mentioned to me, Kolb,” she said.

The doctor took the telephone. “Yes,” he said. “This is the Chief of the Clinic. I am Doctor Braun. Can I help you?” At the name of Braun the secretary shot a puzzled glance at her employer.

Without batting an eyelid, he listened to the voice from Nuremburg and replied smoothly, “I’m afraid Herr Kolb discharged himself last Friday afternoon. Most irregular, but there was nothing I could do to prevent him. Yes, that’s right, he was transferred here from the Bremen General.

A tumor, well on the way to recovery.” He listened for a moment, then said, “Not at all. Glad I could be of help to you.”

The doctor, whose real name was Rosemayer, hung up and then dialed a Munich number. Without preamble he said, “Someone’s been on the phone asking about Kolb. The checking up has started.”

Back in Nuremberg, the lawyer replaced the phone and returned to the living room. “Right, Kolb, you evidently are who you say you are.”

Miller stared at him in astonishment.

“However, I’d like to ask you a few more questions. You don’t mind?”

Still amazed, the visitor shook his head. “No, Sir.”

“Good. Are you circumcised?” Miller stared back blankly.

“No, I’m not,” he said dumbly.

“Show me,” said the lawyer calmly. Miller just sat in his chair and stared at him.

“Show me, Staff Sergeant,” snapped the lawyer.

Miller shot out of his chair, ramrodding to attention. “Zu Befehl,” he responded, quivering at attention. He held the attention position, thumbs down the seams of his trousers, for three seconds, then unzipped his fly.

The lawyer glanced at him briefly, then nodded that he could zip his fly up again.

“Well, at least you’re not Jewish,” he said amiably.

Back in his chair Miller stared at him, open-mouthed. “Of course I’m not Jewish,” he blurted.

The lawyer smiled. “Nevertheless, there have been cases of Jews trying to pass themselves off as one of the Kameraden. They don’t last long. Now you’d better tell me your story, and I’m going to shoot questions at you. Just checking up, you understand. Where were you born?”

“Bremen, Sir.”

“Right. Place of birth is in your SS records. I just checked. Were you in the Hitler Youth?”

“Yes, Sir. Entered at the age of ten in nineteen thirty-five, Sir.”

“Your parents were good National Socialists?”

“Yessir, both of them.”

“What happened to them?”

“They were killed in the great bombing of Bremen.”

“When were you inducted into the SST?”

“Spring nineteen forty-four, Sir. Age eighteen.”

“Where did you train?”

“Dachau SS training camp, Sir.”

“You had your blood group tattooed under your right armpit?”

“No, sir. And it would have been the left armpit.”

“Why weren’t you tattooed?”

“Well, sir, we were due to pass out of training camp in August nineteen forty-four and go to our first posting in a unit of the Waffen SS. Then in July a large group of officers involved in the plot against the Fuhrer was sent down to Flossenburg camp. Flossenburg asked for immediate troops from Dachau training camp to increase the staff at Flossenburg. I and about a dozen others were singled out as cases of special aptitude and sent straight there. We missed our tattooing and the formal passing-out parade of our draft. The commandant said the blood group was not necessary, as we would never get to the front, sir.”

The lawyer nodded. No doubt the commandant had also been aware in July 1944 that, with the Allies well into France, the war was drawing to a close.

“Did you get your dagger?”

“Yes, Sir. From the hands of the commandant.”

“What are the words on it?”

“Blood and Honor, Sir.”

“What kind of training did you get at Dachau?”

“Complete military training, sir, and political-ideological training to supplement that of the Hitler Youth.”

“Did you learn the songs?”

“Yessir.”

“What was the book of marching songs from which the Horst Wessel Song’ was drawn?”

“The album Time of Struggle for the Nation, Sir.”

“Where was Dachau training camp?”

“Ten miles north of Munich, Sir. Three miles from the concentration camp of the same name.”

“What was your uniform?”

“Gray-green tunic and breeches, jackboots, black collar lapels, rank on the left one, black leather belt, and gunmetal buckle.”

“The motto on the buckle?”

“A swastika in the center, ringed with the words ‘My honor is loyalty,’ sir.”

The lawyer rose and stretched. He lit up a cigar and strolled to the window. “Now you’ll tell me about Flossenburg Camp, Staff Sergeant Kolb. Where was it?”

“On the border of Bavaria and Thuringia, sir.”

“When was it opened?”

“In nineteen thirty-four, sir. One of the first for the pigs who opposed the Führer.”

“How large was it?”

“When I was there, sir, three hundred meters by three hundred. It was ringed by nineteen watchtowers with heavy and light machine guns mounted. It had a roll-call square one-twenty meters by one-forty. God, we had some fun there with them Yids—.”