Greg Iles - Black Cross

“Strange that a man like that would let his son join the SS.”

“ Let me?” Schörner slapped his knee. “The old hypocrite made me join! It’s true! Let me tell you a funny story. Secretly, my father despised Hitler. The Führer was a bounder, an upstart, a nobody. But after 1935 or so, my father began to see which way the wind was blowing. So did a lot of aristocrats, as well. He decided Hitler might take Germany where it needed to go after all. Given that, he decided he should cover his bases. My brother Joseph was already in the Wehrmacht, as per family tradition. He’s on Kesselring’s staff now, in Italy. And so young Wolfgang was ‘encouraged’ into the SS. The National Socialist aristocracy. The Nazi elite.”

“You swore the personal oath to Hitler?” Rachel asked quietly.

“Yes. It didn’t seem such a difficult thing to do in 1936. Now . . . well, let us say that the SS is not the ideal organization for an educated man. Not even for a half-educated man like me. Educated men tend to ask questions, and questions are verboten in the SS.”

Rachel’s curiosity struggled with her fear of provoking retaliation. “But even if the SS began as an elite unit, how can a man of your education ignore the things they have done over these years? What I have seen myself — the stories I’ve heard. . . ”

Schörner’s face seemed suddenly to grow heavy. “There are excesses, certainly. There are things I do not agree with. War brings opportunities to men who in normal times suppress darker appetites. You should see what the Russians did to some of my friends.” He curled his lip in disgust. “But frankly, if we win the war, none of that will ever be brought up in polite conversation, much less in a court of law. The butchers will be heroes.”

Rachel was too stunned to consider her words. “If you win? Surely you don’t — I mean, can you win, once the Americans and the English invade?”

Schörner smiled with surprising confidence. “That is exactly the problem we are working on here at Totenhausen. I almost told you the other day.” He leaned back on the sofa, a man in a good humor, munificent in his superiority. “What is this power you have over me?” he asked. “You make me want to pour out my soul. What a fool I am, telling all to a woman.”

Yet he did not stop. He seemed to enjoy the absurdity of the situation. “Frau Jansen, what I told you about Doktor Brandt’s abilities is true. He is a pioneering chemist, a man of genius. His war gases are Germany’s only hope of throwing the Allied invasion army back into the sea. Believe me when I tell you that Soman can stop literally an infinite number of troops. It is what we call a ‘denial’ weapon. No one can occupy the same area it does. And if we deny the Allies a foothold in France this year, we can stop the Russians in the East.”

“But can you win ?”

Schörner bristled. “We might. If not, we can negotiate an end to the war with respectable territorial gains. That would be satisfactory. The alternative is the destruction of Germany.” Schörner leaned forward. “ That is why I tolerate Herr Doktor Brandt’s eccentricities, Frau Jansen. It is an interesting intellectual problem, yes? Brandt’s weakness is one for which I might kill him during normal times. But we are at war. Thus his value to Germany is determined by a different equation. Perhaps by a different mathematics altogether.”

Rachel wondered where she fit in Schörner’s “different” mathematics. There he sat, a scion of the “master race,” having a parlor chat with a member of the tribe he was pledged to eradicate from the face of the earth.

“Sturmbannführer,” she said quietly, “are you not in danger, sitting here with a Jew in this fashion? Doing what we have done?”

Schörner cocked his head slightly to the side. Then he chuckled softly. “I suppose so. But in this crazy camp, I would say that what I did tonight hardly qualifies as a misdemeanor.”

Rachel would not be put off. “I am a Jew,” she said again. “What does that mean to you?”

Schörner turned up his palms. “To me you are a woman,” he said. “I don’t really care about religion. I never did. Brandt doesn’t care either, to tell you the truth. To him we are all guinea pigs.”

“If I was old and ugly,” Rachel said, “would you still not care about my religion?”

Schörner laughed. “You are not old and ugly. Even nearly bald you are quite beautiful. But please, do not push me on this. There are paradoxes in all societies, Frau Jansen. You did not grow up as I did, so you cannot possibly understand what led me to the position in which I now find myself. Nor can I really understand yours.”

“No,” Rachel said under her breath.

Schörner stood, not hurriedly, but with enough emphasis to indicate that the conversation was over. “I have absolutely no doubt that these things I’ve said tonight will not leave this room. You understand, of course.”

Rachel felt as if an electrical switch had been thrown in her chest. What she had taken as a strange intimacy was merely Schörner speaking freely in the certainty that she would eventually die like all the other prisoners. She could scarcely believe she had dared speak to him, much less pressed him about personal matters.

“I understand completely, Sturmbannführer,” she said submissively. “Should I go now?”

“You may go. I look forward to your next visit.”

Rachel turned to the door.

“Just a moment. Take the brandy with you.”

Schörner was holding out the glass she had left untouched on the table. Rachel considered taking the brandy to Frau Hagan. The old Pole would have no scruples about drinking Nazi booty. But Rachel could not touch the glass. Somehow, she felt, if she accepted anything material from Schörner, she would be lost. That she might never find herself again, even if she did someday manage to escape this place.

It was only a small victory, but she clung to it.

Outside Schörner’s quarters, Rachel saw a man standing in the shadow of the administrative building, smoking a cigarette. She cringed, thinking it might be Sergeant Sturm.

As she drew closer she realized it was only one of Sturm’s dog handlers. He did not challenge her, but he smiled in a way that made her rush past as quickly as she could.

24

“The money’s as good as in my pocket!” Sergeant McShane shouted.

Jonas Stern stood at the foot of one support leg of a sixty-foot power pylon, his eyes glued to those of Ian McShane, who stood twenty feet away beneath the pole’s twin. The huge supports were joined at the top by a twenty-foot crossarm, forming an approximate mockup of the pylon Stern would have to scale in Germany. Three electrical wires stretched from the crossarm to a second pylon one hundred yards down the hill, then on again to a third on the banks of Loch Lochy. McShane had bet Stern five pounds that he could beat the younger man to the top of the pylon and release one of the cylinders hanging from the wires.

“Ready?” he prodded.

Stern glanced down at his boots. The iron climbing spikes were strapped securely to his calves, leaving two razor points jutting inward from the arches of his feet. He would have discarded the safety belt that held his waist loosely to the pole, but McShane had insisted he wear it as part of the wager. Stern raised his left foot three feet above the wet ground and dug a spike into the pole. Then he slid the belt up high enough so as not to restrict him when he leaped.

“Ready,” he said.

“See you at the top!” cried McShane.

Stern began climbing with a herky-jerky motion, moving quickly up the pole but fighting the safety belt all the way. With every step he vowed that he would abandon it as soon as he got to Germany. He glanced to his left and marveled at how smoothly Sergeant McShane climbed. The man outweighed him by twenty kilograms, yet he scampered up the pylon with the natural grace of a jungle ape. Stern focused on the crossarm high above his head and redoubled his efforts, scraping both cheeks and inner forearms as he struggled upward.