Winter, page 66
‘How did you find me? This house belongs to the Hennig family.’
‘The ration cards.’
‘Oh, of course.’ She took his peaked cap from him and indicated that he should sit down on the battered sofa. The room was in a terrible muddle. There were two trunks open on one side of the room. From them she’d been taking linen and some oddments of personal possessions. Otherwise the room was relatively bare. Apart from the sofa, there were three hard wooden chairs and a table propped up under a broken leg. A picture of a rather grand wedding group was occupying pride of place on a small inlaid side table. There was no frame for the photo: she’d sold the silver frame to give the Hennigs something to help, and show her appreciation. Close inspection revealed that the groom was Paul, in his army uniform. The bride looked radiant, and there was a big crowd of smiling faces and an escort of army officers with drawn swords.
‘And I wanted to tell you that your sons are safe and well,’ he said.
‘Safe and well,’ she repeated, and sat down as if dazed. ‘Safe and well. Both of them?’
‘Peter is in the American army. He’s with your brother in the American Zone – Munich or somewhere near there. I’m sure they’ll both visit you as soon as they get a chance.’
‘Peter, yes, I’d heard he was with the army.’
‘A full colonel. He’s been assigned to the International Military Tribunal.’
‘That sounds very grand.’
‘The war crimes trials at Nuremberg. It won’t start for a long time yet, and it will go on for ages. You’ll see a lot of them, I should think, unless you’ve decided to be repatriated.’
‘To the U.S.?’
‘It wouldn’t be difficult to arrange, Veronica. If that’s what you want.’
‘You said both boys were safe.’
‘Paul is in a prison camp near Cologne. He’ll probably be taken to England eventually.’
‘To England?’ The poor woman was confused. It was all too much for her.
‘Shall I put the stove on and boil some water?’ he offered. ‘I brought some coffee with me.’
‘Real coffee?’
‘Yes indeed.’
‘It’s a pressure stove. You won’t be able to work it.’
‘Stay where you are, Veronica. I was working these stoves when I was at Boy Scout camp, and that was a long time ago.’
She laughed. It was a sweet, girlish laugh. ‘Yes, it must have been a long time ago.’
She watched him as he made the coffee. It gave her a moment to compose herself. It was all so unexpected. Why hadn’t he written? She would have worn something better, and asked Lisl to do her hair for her. There was a sudden loud hissing as he got the pressure stove started. He tried the tap, but there was no water.
‘In the jug on the drainingboard,’ she called. As well as a two-pound package of coffee, he’d brought a can of evaporated milk and a bag of sugar. He was so precise and methodical. ‘The can opener is in the drawer.’
‘Stay where you are, Veronica. I can manage.’
‘And you are in the army?’ she said.
‘Don’t I look like a soldier?’
‘Of course you do,’ she said, although in fact he didn’t. He looked like an elderly matinee idol playing the role of one.
He brought the pot of coffee, and the milk in a jug. She said, ‘Tell me about Pauli.’
He looked at her. It was better to tell her the whole truth; she wasn’t the sort of woman who refused to face reality. ‘He’s being interrogated…. Oh, don’t be frightened, Veronica. That doesn’t mean ill-treated. He’s being questioned.’
‘About what?’
‘Paul was a high official of the Gestapo. He was at a decision-making level in the Ministry of the Interior.’
‘He’s not a criminal,’ she said softly. ‘He was just a civil servant: a bureaucrat.’
‘These are Nazi Party organizations, Veronica. It’s routine, but he’ll have to be questioned.’
‘You know a lot about him.’
‘I poked my nose into it. They let me look at the files. One of my young men, a fellow named Brian Samson, is what, in this hateful modern jargon, they are calling “a de-Nazification expert”.’
‘Samson. The name is familiar. Do I know him?’
‘Possibly. He used to work in one of Harald’s factories.’
She looked at him in mild surprise; she could believe anything by now. ‘An Englishman. Yes, I met him once or twice. So he was one of your people?’
‘Yes,’ said Piper.
‘Harald always said you were a spy. I laughed at him. We quarrelled about it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For being a spy?’
‘That you quarrelled.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She picked up the coffee, smelled it for a moment, and then drank some greedily. It was the first taste of real fresh coffee she’d had in a long long time. ‘Do you have a family?’ she asked.
‘No, I never married. There was always so much work. Girlfriends wouldn’t put up with me.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
He tried to think of something to say. Something that would smoothly lead to his being able to tell her that no one he’d ever met could measure up to her. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He only had two days here in Berlin, and he’d vowed to tell her that there had been no one else in his life. He watched her, savouring the sight of her. She had drunk all her coffee already and he’d not even tasted his own. He smiled and poured more for her.
‘That coffee tastes so good,’ she said.
‘And you never married again?’ he asked.
‘Me? No.’ She decided that her second cup would have evaporated milk in it. ‘Do you take cream?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
She poured some for him. ‘Enough?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s so good to speak English again.’ She poured some of the tinned milk for herself, then touched her hair. ‘I must look terrible. It’s so dusty, and everything is such a mess.’
‘You look wonderful, Veronica.’
‘I wish I could offer you something.’
‘I’ll send you some food. I have such a lot. Do you smoke?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘I’ll let you have some cigarettes anyway. They say you can get anything done for cigarettes.’
‘Yes, there’s no doubt about that.’ She sighed. ‘There is no self-discipline, no faith, no dignity, no self-respect any more. The Germany that I once knew is gone.’
‘Was it anything but our self-deception, Veronica? I loved Germany, too, but now I ask myself if that Germany I loved so much ever existed.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘To Paul? It’s difficult to guess. There is talk of declaring the SS an illegal organization, but I don’t see how they could punish every member of the SS, could they?’
‘Harald said that once about the Jews. He said that Hitler and his Nazis could hardly punish every one of them, but he did, didn’t he?’
‘Nearly every one, yes, but we’re not Hitler.’
‘Pauli’s wife left him. She went off with a man he worked for, Fritz Esser, the deputy minister. Now I see that Fritz Esser is going to be charged with crimes against humanity.’ She picked up her coffee and sipped some. ‘I worry about Pauli. He’s a wonderful boy; there is no wickedness in him.’
‘And I’m sure he’ll come to no harm.’
‘When the Russian soldiers came to the old house, he stayed with me, locked up in the attic. He had a gun. Eventually they went away.’
‘It must have been terrible.’
‘People were being raped and murdered. We could hear them screaming and shouting. It was a nightmare, and it went on for days and nights, but Pauli stayed with me. Then, when the British soldiers arrived, an English officer and police came. They searched the house and took Pauli away.’ She was distressed at the memory.
He said, ‘Better us than the Russians.’
‘Pauli said that, too. Then the English came back and commandeered the whole house. They’d noticed that I was there alone and that it wasn’t too badly damaged. They gave me forty-eight hours to get out. I had to come around here to live with the Hennigs.’
‘Berlin will not be a good place to live, Veronica. Accommodation will become more and more difficult, and when winter comes life will be hard.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she said. She looked at him and smiled.
He wondered if this was the right time for him to say that he loved her, that he adored her, that he wanted to marry her, that she was the only woman he’d ever wanted. But he wasn’t sure it was the right time. He was English: an elderly Englishman who was frightened of making a fool of himself. He decided to leave it for another time. The thought of her laughing at him was unendurable. Better, perhaps, to live without her than to risk the destruction of his dream.
‘I’m going to Cologne tomorrow for a conference,’ he said. He mustn’t outstay his welcome. Perhaps it was a mistake to come without warning. He got to his feet. ‘If I can get any news of your son, I will let you know.’
‘Thank you. You’re forgetting your package of coffee.’
‘Please, keep it if you’d like it.’
‘It was wonderful to see you again, Boy.’ She couldn’t offer him a meal; she had no food and no money to buy any. She wondered where would be the best place to sell the coffee. With that money she’d have enough to give him a snack of some kind next time he came.
‘I’ll keep in touch,’ he promised. She was close to him, and he wondered whether he should kiss her, but it might offend her. He decided to shake hands instead.
‘Everyone is being damned vindictive’
Colonel Peter Winter could never get over the Americans, their profligate use of money and the hardware, and convenience, that money could buy. When he went to collect his brother, the U.S. Army provided him with the exclusive use of a plane to Nuremberg. It was not a small communications plane, either, but a large Douglas DC3 transport.
Pauli Winter’s months in custody had made him thin, wiry and fit – he looked like the young soldier who’d marched off to fight in World War I – but he was no longer the careless, cheerful man he’d once been. Confinement did not suit Pauli’s restless, undisciplined spirit, and now he’d become moody and subdued; even the presence of Peter hadn’t restored his confident good humour. He’d chosen a seat by the window, and now he watched the land pass beneath in breathless horror. Nothing he’d read or heard had prepared him for the reality of this war-ravaged, pock-marked land that once had been Germany. The light dusting of snow revealed every crater and roofless farm building, every broken spire and lifeless village. To Pauli it was as if someone had taken a pot of white paint to mark each wound and say to him, ‘German, this is your punishment – repent!’
Peter Winter and his brother, Pauli, sat side by side. Behind them sat Brian Samson, who wore the uniform of a British army captain. The people in London had been reluctant to let Paul Winter go, and eventually Peter had eased the situation by suggesting that Brian Samson came, too. Samson didn’t want to go to Nuremberg, but he’d been ordered to do so. It was, someone had said, important not to create a precedent. Senior staff from the Ministry of the Interior were important catches. Such categorized German prisoners would not be released to the Americans on receipt of a request. Paul Winter was not released to the Americans: he was still in the direct custody of Captain Brian Samson and would remain so until further notice.
Suddenly Pauli dragged his eyes away from the ground below and asked, ‘Wouldn’t it have been better if I’d stayed in London and faced this de-Nazification inquiry?’
Peter was tired. There were rings under his eyes, and his face was wrinkled, as was his uniform. Worry about Pauli and grief for Lottie, concern for his daughter and his mother had put such a multitude of burdens upon him that he sometimes felt he could no longer cope. For the last week or so he’d been subjected to Glenn Rensselaer’s long and bitter tirades about Dot and the way she’d managed to become the sole beneficiary of Cy Rensselaer’s fortune. She’d already made it clear that she’d do nothing to rectify the old man’s harsh decision to omit Glenn and Veronica from the will. The money was destined for her three sons. Glenn, who’d never concerned himself with money was furious. He wanted to contest the will and urged Peter to join him in the action. Peter was too tired even to argue about it. But collecting Pauli had concentrated his mind. For the time being Pauli was the focus of his anxieties. He loved Pauli and had missed him very much.
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said Peter. ‘Everyone is being damned vindictive at the moment. Let a few months go by and they will simmer down a little. Instead of hanging people they’ll be giving out shorter and shorter prison sentences. If I can keep you in Nuremberg until the IMT is finished, everyone will be getting bored with de-Nazification. I know the Americans. Do as I say.’
‘Did you tell Fritz Esser to ask for me?’
‘I had someone remind him that it was his right to have any defence lawyer that would agree to serve. He didn’t have to be told that you would be a good choice.’
‘He could have had anyone?’
‘Even a German serving a sentence would be temporarily released.’
‘So it will be a fair trial?’
‘A fair trial? In Nuremberg?’ Peter looked at his younger brother and gave him a weary smile. ‘Yes, they’ll get a fair trial, and then they’ll be hanged.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘It will be a fiasco,’ said Peter. ‘The Russians are sitting in judgement. The Russians! They were Hitler’s allies. Stalin sent Hitler a message of congratulation when France surrendered to the panzers. Stalin’s concentration camps have slaughtered more victims than Himmler’s have. They will be the judges.’
‘But still…’
‘Wait till you get there; you’ll see. Each of the accused has one lawyer. You won’t even be able to talk to Fritz Esser in private: you’ll be in a noisy room, crowded together with other accused men trying to talk to their lawyers. There will be a guard sitting alongside you to make sure that he hears everything you say. And, to make sure you don’t get close enough to whisper, they’ll put a sheet of armoured glass in front of your face.’
‘That won’t help them…’
‘And you’ll see what the prosecution team is like. There are hundreds of lawyers, and hundreds of researchers, translators and secretarial staff. Money is being spent without restriction; this is the trial that justifies the war, you see. So the prosecution staff are living in the fancy hotels and throwing wild parties every night. French champagne and American rations. Cigarettes by the carton. Oh, yes, the lawyers will have a fair trial; it will be something to talk about when they’re back home in America. But for the accused it will be a travesty of justice.’
‘It can’t be true,’ said Pauli.
‘It’s true. I’m on the prosecution staff, so I know,’ said Peter.
‘Are you trying to depress me?’
‘I just don’t want you to imagine that you are going to go to Nuremberg and do some kind of wonderful legal work and bring Esser out of court a free man. You’re not. Esser will go to the gallows. The International Military Tribunal at Nuremberg is just a fancy way of sending him there.’
There was a new voice, soft but angry. ‘Is that what you think, Colonel Winter?’ said Brian Samson from the seat behind them.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Peter Winter. He’d known that Samson was listening to him. In fact, his tirade wasn’t entirely designed to disillusion Pauli, but partly to provoke and irritate Brian Samson. And he’d succeeded. The two men knew exactly how to annoy each other. They’d had a lot of practice.
‘Spring will be a little late this year’
The jail was five spokes radiating from a central rotunda, each with three levels of cells. There was heavy-duty wire mesh overhead to frustrate suicide attempts. The guards were uniformed American soldiers, and from the office at the end came the resonant sound of music: ‘Spring Will Be a Little Late This Year’. It was one of the hit tunes. Fritz Esser was on the bottom level, near the end. The cell floor was uneven flagstones, and the walls rough plaster with damp patches under the tiny window set high in the wall. In the corner was a toilet that smelled of a powerful disinfectant.
Pauli entered the prison cell unprepared for the change that the short period of imprisonment had wrought. Fritz Esser was only fifty-two years old and looked at least sixty. He was an old man. He was sitting on the iron frame bed, sallow and shrunken. His elbows were resting on his knees and one hand was propped under his unshaven chin. The prison authorities had taken from him his belt, his braces and his necktie, and the expensive custom-made suit from Berlin’s most famous tailor was now stained and baggy. And yet the dark-underlined eyes were the same, and the pointed cleft chin made him immediately recognizable as a celebrity of the Third Reich, one of Hitler’s most reliable associates.
He waited for Fritz Esser to speak but he said nothing. Finally Pauli said, ‘You sent for me, Herr Reichsminister?’
The prisoner looked up. ‘The Reich is kaputt, Germany is kaputt, and I’m not a minister: I’m just a number.’ Pauli Winter could think of no way to respond to this bitterness. He’d become used to seeing him sitting behind the magnificent hand-carved desk in the tapestry-hung room in the ministry, surrounded by aides, secretaries and assistants. ‘Yes, I sent for you, Herr Doktor Winter. Sit down.’
He sat down. So he’d guessed right, Fritz Esser wanted to keep it all formal: Herr Doktor Winter, not Pauli. Well, that was just as well. It was better kept formal if you were talking to your former boss in prison.
‘I sent for you, Winter, and I’ll tell you why. They told me you were in prison in London awaiting interrogation. They said that any of us on trial here could choose any German national we wanted for our defence counsel, and that if the one we chose was being held in prison they’d release him to do it. It seemed to me that a man in prison might know what it’s like for me in here.’
