Philip Kerr - A Man Without Breath

‘My dear fellow, you’re too kind.’ Goldsche glanced my way. ‘Von Dohnanyi’s father is the great conductor and composer, Ernst von Dohnanyi.’ Goldsche was a tremendous snob about classical music.

‘Do you like music, Captain Gunther?’

Dohnanyi’s enquiry was scrupulously polite. Behind his round, frameless glasses the eyes didn’t care if I liked music or not; but then neither did I, and without the von in front of my name I certainly wasn’t nearly as scrupulous as he was about what I used to fill my ears.

‘I like a good melody if it’s sung by a pretty girl with a good pair of lungs, especially when the lyric is a vulgar one and the lungs are really noticeable. And I can’t tell an arpeggio from an archipelago. But life’s too short for Wagner, I do know that much.’

Goldsche grinned enthusiastically. He always seemed to take a vicarious delight in my capacity for blunt talking, which I enjoyed playing up to. ‘What else do you know?’ he enquired.

‘I whistle when I’m in the bath, which isn’t as often as I’d like,’ I added, lighting a cigarette. That was the other good thing about working for the OKW – there was always a plentiful supply of quite decent cigarettes. ‘Talking of which, it seems the Russians are here already.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked von Dohnanyi, momentarily alarmed.

‘Those fellows whistling in the corridor outside the door,’ I said. ‘The skilled German craftsmen from the local glazier’s guild who are repairing the flower-house windows. They’re Russians.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Goldsche. ‘Here? In the OKW? That hardly seems like a good idea. What about security?’

‘Someone’s got to repair the windows,’ I said. ‘It’s cold outside. There’s no secret about that. I just hope the glass is more durable than the Luftwaffe, because I’ve got the feeling the RAF is planning a return visit.’

Von Dohnanyi allowed himself a thin smile and then an even thinner puff of his cigarette. I’d seen children smoke with more gusto.

‘How are you feeling, anyway?’ Goldsche looked at the other lawyer and explained. ‘Gunther was in a house in Lutzow that was bombed while he was taking a deposition from a potential witness. He’s lucky to be here at all.’

‘That’s certainly the way I feel about it.’ I tapped my chest. ‘And I’m much better, thanks.’

‘Fit for work?’

‘Chest is still a bit tight, but otherwise I’m more or less back to normal.’

‘And the witness? Herr Meyer?’

‘He’s alive, but I’m afraid the only evidence he’s going to give any time soon is in the court of heaven.’

‘You’ve seen him?’ asked von Dohnanyi. ‘In the Jewish Hospital?’

‘Yes, poor fellow. A large part of his brain seems to have gone missing. Not that anyone notices that kind of thing very much nowadays. But he’s no use to us now, I’m afraid.’

‘Pity,’ said Goldsche. ‘He was going to be an important witness in a case we were preparing against the Royal Navy,’ he told Von Dohnanyi. ‘The British navy really does think it can get away with murder. Unlike the American navy, which recognizes all our hospital ships, the Royal Navy recognizes the larger-tonnage hospital ships but not the smaller ones.’

‘Because the smaller ones are picking up our unwounded air crews?’ asked Von Dohnanyi.

‘That’s right. It’s a great pity this case collapsed before it even got started. Then again, it does make life a little simpler for us. Not to mention more palatable. Goebbels was interested in putting Franz Meyer on the radio. That wouldn’t have done at all.’

‘It’s not just the ministry of propaganda who were interested in Franz Meyer,’ I said. ‘The Gestapo came to see me while I was in the state hospital, asking questions about Meyer.’

‘Did they?’ murmured Von Dohnanyi.

‘What sort of questions?’ asked Goldsche.

I shrugged. ‘Who his friends were, that kind of thing. They seemed to think Meyer might have been mixed up in some sort of currency-smuggling racket in order to help persuade the Swiss to offer asylum to a group of Jews.’

Goldsche looked puzzled.

‘Money for refugees,’ I added. ‘Well, you know how bighearted the Swiss are. They make all that lovely white chocolate just to help sugar the lie that they’re peace-loving and kind. Of course they’re not. Never were. Even the German army was in the habit of recruiting Swiss mercenaries. The Italians used to call it a bad war when Swiss pikemen were involved because their kind of fighting was so vicious.’

‘What did you tell them?’ asked Goldsche. ‘The Gestapo?’

‘I didn’t tell them anything.’ I shrugged. ‘I don’t know about a currency racket. The Gestapo mentioned a few names, but I certainly hadn’t heard of them. Anyway, the commissar who came to see me – I know him. He’s not bad as Gestapo officers go. Fellow by the name of Werner Sachse. I’m not sure if he’s a Party member but I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t.’

‘I don’t like the Gestapo involving themselves with our inquiries,’ said Goldsche. ‘I don’t like it at all. Our judicial independence is always under threat from Himmler and his thugs.’

I shook my head. ‘The Gestapo are like dogs. You have to let them lick the bone for a while or they become savage. Take my word for it. This was a routine inquiry. The commissar licked the bone, let me fold his ears and then he slunk away. Simple as that. And there’s no need for alarm. I don’t see anyone winding up this department because seven Jews went skiing in Switzerland without permission.’

Von Dohnanyi shrugged. ‘Captain Gunther is probably right,’ he said. ‘This commissar was just going through the motions, that’s all.’

I smiled patiently, sipped my coffee, checked my own natural curiosity about exactly how it was that Von Dohnanyi had known Meyer was in the Jewish Hospital, and tried to bring the meeting to order. ‘What did you want to see me about, sir?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Goldsche nodded. ‘You’re sure you’re fit, now?’

I nodded.

‘Good.’ Goldsche looked at his aristocratic friend. ‘Hans? Would you care to enlighten the captain?’

‘Certainly.’ Von Dohnanyi put down his cigarette holder, removed his spectacles and then a neatly folded handkerchief, and started to clean the lenses.

I stubbed out my cigarette, opened my notebook, and prepared to take some notes.

Von Dohnanyi shook his head. ‘Please, just listen for now if you would, captain,’ he said. ‘When I’m finished you’ll perhaps understand my request that no notes are taken of this meeting.’

I closed the notebook and waited.

‘Following the Gleiwitz incident, German forces invaded Poland on the first of September 1939, and sixteen days later the Red Army invaded from the East, in accordance with the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact signed between our two countries on the 23rd of August 1939. Germany annexed western Poland and the Soviet Union incorporated the eastern half into its Ukrainian and Belarussian republics. Some four hundred thousand Polish troops were taken prisoner by the Wehrmacht, while at least another quarter of a million Poles were captured by the Red Army. It is the fate of those Polish men taken prisoner by the Russians with which we are concerned here. Ever since the Wehrmacht invaded the Soviet Union-’

‘Germany’s always been unlucky that way,’ I said. ‘With her friends I mean.’

Ignoring my sarcasm, Von Dohnanyi put his glasses back on his face and continued: ‘Possibly even as soon as August 1941, the Abwehr has been receiving reports of a mass murder of Polish officers that took place in the spring or early summer of 1940. But where this took place was anyone’s guess. Until now, perhaps.