Frederick Forsyth - The Odessa File

“Stick to the point,” snapped the lawyer. “What were the accommodations?”

“Twenty-four barracks, a kitchen for the inmates, a washhouse, a sanatorium, and various workshops.”

“And for the SS guards?”

“Two barracks, a shop, and a bordello.”

“How were the bodies of those who died disposed of?”

“There was a small crematorium outside the wire. It was reached from inside the camp by an underground passage.”

“What was the main kind of work done?”

“Stone-breaking in the quarry, sir. The quarry was also outside the wire, surrounded by barbed wire and watchtowers of its own.”

“What was the population in late nineteen forty-four?”

“Oh, about sixteen thousand inmates, sir.”

“Where was the commandant’s office?”

“Outside the wire, sir, halfway up a slope overlooking the camp.”

“Who were the successive commandants?”

“Two were before I got there, sir. The first was SS Major Karl Kunstler. His successor was SS Captain Karl Fritsch. The last one was SS Lieutenant Colonel Max Kegel.”

“Which was the number of the political department?”

“Department Two, sir.”

“Where was it?”

“In the commandant’s block.”

“What were its duties?”

“To ensure that requirements from Berlin that certain prisoners received special treatment were carried out.”

“Canaris and the other plotters were so indicated?”

“Yes, Sir. They were all designated for special treatment.”

“When was this carried out?”

“April twentieth, nineteen forty-five, sir. The Americans were moving up through Bavaria, so the orders came to finish them off. A group of us was designated to do the job. I was then a newly promoted staff sergeant, although I had arrived at the camp as a private. I headed the detail for Canaris and five others. Then we had a burial party of Jews bury the bodies. Hartstein was one of them, damn his eyes. After that we burned the camp documents. Some time later we were ordered to march the prisoners northward. On the way we beard the Fuhrer had killed himself. Well, sit, the officers left us then. The prisoners started running off into the woods. We shot a few, us sergeants, but there didn’t seem much point in marching on. I mean the Yanks were all over the place.”

“One last question about the camp, Staff Sergeant. When you looked up, from anywhere in the camp, what did you see?”

Miller looked puzzled. “The sky,” he said.

“Fool, I mean what dominated the horizon?”

“Oh, you mean the hill with the ruined castle keep on it?”

The lawyer nodded and smiled. “Fourteenth century, actually,” he said. “All right, Kolb, you were at Flossenburg. Now, how did you get away?”

“Well, Sir, it was on the march. We all broke up. I found an Army private wandering around, so I hit him on the head and took his uniform. The Yanks caught me two days later. I did two years in a prisoner-of-war camp, but just told them I was an Army private. Well, you know how it was, Sir, there were rumors floating about that the Yanks were shooting SS men out of hand. So I said I was in the Army.”

The lawyer exhaled a draft of cigar smoke. “You weren’t alone in that. Did you change your name?”

“No, Sir. I threw my papers away, because they identified me as SS. But I didn’t think to change the name. I didn’t think anyone would look for a staff sergeant. At the time the business with Canaris didn’t seem very important. It was only much later people started to make a fuss over those Army officers, and made a shrine of the place in Berlin where they hanged the ringleaders. But then I had papers from the Federal Republic in the name of Kolb. Anyway, nothing would have happened if that orderly hadn’t spotted me, and after that it wouldn’t have mattered what I called myself.”

“True. Right, now we’ll go on to a little of the things you were taught. Start by repeating to me the oath of loyalty to the Fuhrer,” said the lawyer.

It went on for another three hours. Miller was sweating, but was able to say he had left the hospital prematurely and had not eaten all day. It was past lunchtime when at last the lawyer professed himself satisfied.

“Just what do you want?” he asked Miller.

“Well, the thing is, sir, with them all looking for me, I’m going to need a set of papers showing I am not Rolf Gunther Kolb. I can change my appearance, grow my hair, let the mustache grow longer, and get a job in Bavaria or somewhere. I mean, I’m a skilled baker, and people need bread, don’t they?” For the first time in the interview the lawyer threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, my good Kolb, people need bread. Very well. Listen. Normally people of your standing in life hardly merit a lot of expensive time and trouble being spent on them. But as you are evidently in trouble through no fault of your own, obviously a good and loyal German, I’ll do what I can. There’s no point in your getting simply a new driving license. That would not enable you to get a social-security card without producing a birth certificate, which you haven’t got. But a new passport would get you all these things. Have you got any money?”

“No, Sir. I’m dead broke. I’ve been hitchhiking south for the past three days.”

The lawyer gave him a hundred-mark note. “You can’t stay here, and it will take at least a week before your new passport comes through. I’ll send you to a friend of mine who will acquire the passport for you. He lives in Stuttgart. You’d better check into a commercial hotel and go and see him. I’ll tell him you’re coming, and he’ll be expecting you.” The lawyer wrote on a piece of paper. “He’s called Franz Bayer, and here’s his address. You’d better take the train to Stuttgart, find a hotel, and go straight to him. If you need a little more money, he’ll help you out. But don’t go spending a lot. Stay under cover and wait until Bayer can fix you up with a new passport. Then we’ll find you a job in southern Germany, and no one will ever trace you.”

Miller took the hundred marks and the address of Bayer with embarrassed thanks. “Oh, thank you, Herr Doktor, you’re a real gentleman.” The maid showed him out, and he walked back toward the station, his hotel, and his parked car. An hour later he was speeding toward Stuttgart, while the lawyer rang Bayer and told him to expect Rolf Gunther Kolb, refugee from the police, in the early evening.

There was no autobahn between Nuremberg and Stuttgart in those days, and on a bright sunny day the road leading across the lush plain of Franconia and into the wooded hills and valleys of Wurttemberg would have been picturesque. On a bitter February afternoon, with ice glittering in the dips of the road surface and mist forming in the valleys, the twisting ribbon of tarmac between Ansbach and Crailsheim was murderous. Twice the heavy Jaguar almost slithered into a ditch, and twice Miller had to tell himself there was no hurry. Bayer, the man who knew how to get false passports, would still be there.

He arrived after dark and found a small hotel in the outer city that nevertheless had a night porter for those who preferred to stay out late, and a garage at the back for the car. From the hall porter he got a town plan and found Bayer’s street in the suburb of Ostheim, a well-set-up area not far from the Villa Berg, in whose gardens the Princes of Wurttemberg and their ladies had once disported themselves on summer nights.

Following the map, he drove the car down into the bowl of hills that frames the center of Stuttgart, along which the vineyards come up to the outskirts of the city, and parked his car a quarter of a mile from Bayer’s house. As he stooped to lock the driver’s-side door, he failed to notice a middle-aged lady coming home from her weekly meeting of the Hospital Visitors Committee at the nearby Villa Hospital.