Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘Yes, Captain,’ interrupted Verhein. His face was very white, the line of his jaw etched sharp. From outside came a fresh burst of firing, seemingly closer, the dull thump of explosions and the roll of machine guns.

There was movement outside the door, the squawk of the radio, the light sliced as men moved around outside. The same sergeant knocked at the door. ‘ Out! And stay out!’ Ascher shouted over his shoulder. The soldier paused, then left. The colonel kicked the door shut and turned back to face them. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘ What?! Tell me.’

‘You’ve been backing the wrong horse, Colonel,’ said Reinhardt. He took a deep breath. He had to end this. He had to break this link between the two of them. The general had not moved, and maybe, thought Reinhardt, he had miscalculated by mentioning that French village. Maybe Verhein now saw him as someone to be got rid of as well. ‘This man you admire and loathe equally, this man you have protected despite himself – despite yourself – is not who you think he is.’ He paused, as Verhein’s eyes had come up, his head as well, his whole bearlike frame straightening.

‘That file is the proof, all the proof that could be found…’ He paused. There was a pleading in Verhein’s eyes, a dumb supplication like that of an animal caught in an agony it could not conceive of ending and was thus eternal. Reinhardt could not imagine what it was like for a man like him. A warrior, the son of one people forced to partake in the butchery of another. A man who gloried, it seemed, in the martial arts, and who ended up flailing against the forces that made him what he was, trying to find a way out, enacting what small acts of rebellion he could. He took a deep breath. ‘All the proof that could be found that General Paul Verhein is a member of the German resistance. Committed to the overthrow of the Fuhrer and the Reich.’ The words felt like acid as they twisted across his tongue. Lies, but leavened with just enough of the truth to hide it. Just words, but enough to galvanise someone into action, to break the back of this confrontation and end it.

‘The what? ’ exclaimed Ascher. On the floor, Mamagedov had gone very still, rising slowly up on one elbow.

‘The resistance,’ repeated Reinhardt, staring straight at Verhein. He saw the light in the general’s eyes change, the animal patience fading away, replaced with something more calculating.

‘General. General! ’ Verhein’s head swung slowly to Ascher. ‘Is this true? It can’t be true?’

‘It’s true,’ said Reinhardt. The atmosphere in the room was charged, as it sometimes was in a police cell during an interrogation, just before the suspect broke. Unconsciously, he straightened, ignoring the pain in his knee and back. He focused on Ascher, his tone turning resonant, commanding. ‘What better way to disguise his activities than as a brilliant commander? What better way to worm his way into higher confidences than bringing his tactical prowess to the strategic level?’ He put a lash in his voice, taking a small step towards Ascher. The man was once a chaplain. A man of the book. Old Testament, surely. ‘It so nearly worked. And you would have helped him. In covering for him, you would have allowed such a snake as him into the bosom of our people. Such a sin that would have been, Colonel.’

‘No…’ whispered Ascher.

‘They will think you knew. Both of you,’ Reinhardt said, bringing Mamagedov into it too. The Kalmyk glared up at him from the floor.

‘No,’ Ascher whispered again, shaking his head.

‘You think the Gestapo will believe that when they start pulling your fingernails out?’ sneered Reinhardt. ‘Kick in the doors of your family? Put Mamagedov up against a wall? Or hand him back to the Reds?’

‘ NO! ’ roared Mamagedov. He exploded suddenly into action. He twisted and spun on his backside, his feet slicing into Claussen’s ankles. The sergeant fell backwards, and Mamagedov flung himself off the floor at him. The two men crashed together, feet thumping and scrabbling for purchase. Mamagedov clawed his hands across Claussen’s face, fingers hooked. With the MP 40 caught between them, Claussen tossed his head from side to side, keeping his eyes away from Mamagedov’s fingers. His own fists bunched knuckle-white around Mamagedov’s ears, thumbs digging for his eyes. Ma shy;magedov bellowed like a bull, butting his head forward into Claussen’s face, twisting, ramming, dropping his hands and pounding his fists into the sergeant’s ribs.

The pistol wavered in Ascher’s hand, then turned towards the two struggling men. Reinhardt lunged through the pain of his knee and grabbed Ascher’s gun hand, punching him on the jaw as hard as he could. The colonel careened backwards, stumbling and slipping into a heap in the corner. Turning, Reinhardt scooped up the baton, and whipped it at Mamagedov. The ball at the end of the baton took him in the back of the head. There was a sound like an egg cracking, and the Kalmyk sagged over Claussen.

A bullet splintered the wall by Reinhardt’s head as Mamagedov slithered heavily to the floor. Ascher’s second shot took Claussen high in the arm, knocking him sideways. He hissed in pain, his hand closing over the wound, blood welling between his fingers.

Urgent voices came from outside, and the wood rattled as someone knocked at the door. ‘General? General?! ’

Ascher motioned at Verhein to say something. ‘It’s fine,’ Verhein called out, eyes on the colonel. ‘Everything’s under control. I’ll be out in a minute.’

Ascher pushed himself up and took an unsteady step out of the corner. He looked at Verhein, drawing in a deep breath as if deciding something. ‘He’s right, you know. I want a way out of this. I deserve better after all the… the mess I’ve cleaned up. Always us volunteering. Always me organising. Never knowing if it’ll be the last time. Well, I’ve had it. The crap you leave behind you. The drinking. The whoring. The fighting. The way you trample the rules. “Do what I tell you, not what I do ”? And then coming to me. To sleep it off. To make things right. To ask for my help. To confess it? “Father Superior”,’ he sneered. ‘You don’t know the fucking half of it.’

Verhein shook his head, his gaze on the floor. ‘Clemens…’

‘You’re just like her. You think the world revolves around you. You sent me back to her. To her . And I find her alive, when you said she was dead, and you know that all she had for me was scorn, and she was screaming at me that you were finished, that I was finished, and I had that knife, and I was going to make sure Stolic took the blame if anyone had to, so I stabbed her, and she fought me and I stabbed her again. And again.’

‘Clemens…’

‘I did what you should have done. I made sure of it.’

‘Clemens, I.…’

‘NO!’ The pistol was now very much aimed at Verhein, and Ascher’s eyes slavered like a zealot’s. ‘You think harsh words at night fade with the morning. One of your stock phrases, right? Right? And she was the same. All smiles one minute, and scorn the next. Well, that doesn’t work. Not with me. Maybe with those sheep outside you call men, but not with me. I remember it all. All those offhand remarks. The backhanded compliments. The insults. All of it.’

Verhein looked bewildered, a bear brought to bay. He shook his head, the light passing over his white hair, and he still could not seem to meet Ascher’s eyes. ‘Clemens, what are you saying?’

‘Either you take him away,’ Reinhardt guessed, ‘or he makes his own way out. That was the plan.’ Ascher’s eyes bored into his. ‘But now I’ve ruined it. The hold he would have had over you is gone. You didn’t kill her, General. He did.’