An Infinity of Mirrors (41 page)

The building was silent; the battalion had done its work. Drayst lay on the floor of the elevator as limp as a scarecrow, hat jaunty over his bandages which gave him a widely outlined clown's mouth in wet red. On the street floor they left him crumpled while they checked the location of the staff car. It had been parked exactly where Veelee had ordered. They returned and dragged the former Colonel Drayst across the marble floors, rolled him down the steps, and threw him onto the floor in the back of the car. The shattered face was trying to talk, but the sounds which came out were hardly human, and certainly not words.

The car flew Veelee's pennant, and Paule moved it across the deserted city at high speed.

“I have civilian clothes in the boot of the car for you,” she said.

“No. I thank you, but I cannot.”

“You wanted Kluge to give all of you up to the enemy, so why won't you do that yourself? You must act as the symbol of the army. You must surrender—symbolically—for your comrades.”

“That is not possible.”

“Then what will happen?”

“I don't know.”

“They will arrest you. You will be shot.”

“Perhaps. That is a hazard of my family's profession, my dear Paule. But so many officers are involved that even he cannot shoot them all.”

“He can, Veelee. He will, dearest!”

“I think not. But there are no more battles for me.” He sighed. “What will you do after tonight, my darling?”

“I don't know. If you go, I will have nothing.”

“You could go to Spain … to—”

“No.”

“I want you to be safe.”

“I am yours, Veelee. I belong to you. It was never meant to be any other way.”

He lifted her hand and kissed it. “I will love you forever,” he said.

The car climbed the rue Lafayette. It slowed down at the check point in the Porte de Pantin and Veelee leaned forward into the searchlights. The sergeant of police waved them on and the car moved out into the rue de Paris.

“I am frightened,” Paule said, staring at the road.

“Why not? Hitler is still alive.”

“Not that. No more.” She shuddered. “I know I don't understand yet what we are doing tonight—but I am frightened of what will happen when I do.”

Veelee's voice became hard. “We accomplished what we had pledged our honor to do.”

“When Papa was alive it was so good to live,” Paule said. “If we could only get back to that time.”

“Drancy ahead,” Veelee said. When the car stopped at the gate he ordered the duty sergeant to take them to the Officer of the Day.

The French police had long since been replaced by SS troops. Drancy was now run by Totenkopf battalions. The Officer of the Day was an SS Sturmbannfuehrer whom Veelee addressed by the army rank of major, which made the man stand taller. Between them the duty sergeant and Veelee manhandled and dragged Drayst into the orderly room and dumped him into a chair. Paule entered behind them and sat in a chair on the other side of the room, ignoring the major and staring at Drayst with desperate gratitude. Drayst was making mewing sounds at the Sturmbannfuehrer, a man whom he had known for almost ten years. His eyes were alive with a terror that demanded to be understood, but no one except Paule even looked in his direction. He reached up and pulled at the sergeant's tunic with his left hand and almost had his wrist broken by a downward slash of the sergeant's hand.

“Here is a very, very special Jew, Major,” Veelee said. “He is a very special guest who is now in your hands at the personal order of the Military Governor.”

“Yes, my General!” The Sturmbannfuehrer had never seen a combat general before. Veelee unbuttoned his left breast pocket under the dazzling rows of combat ribbons and removed the splendidly authenticated papers for Drayst which Piocher had asked Fräulein Nortnung to make up for him as a special favor, and which had been signed that morning by SS Colonel Drayst himself. “His papers,” Veelee said, and handed them with a bow to the Sturmbannfuehrer.

“Yes, my General.”

“When does the next train leave for the east?” Veelee knew the answer because Piocher had told him, but he wanted to have it confirmed. “Where does it go?”

“At thirteen-eleven, my General.” The Sturmbannfuehrer looked at his watch. “In forty-nine minutes, to Auschwitz.” The check-suited, bandaged figure on the chair made a series of disgusting sounds, and the sergeant cuffed it with a heavy backhand. “It will leave from Bobigny, which is directly adjacent, as you may know.”

“When does it reach Auschwitz?”

“Between sixty hours and four days, sir. Depending. This train has been routed through Nancy and Strasbourg into Stuttgart and Nuremberg, then to Dresden, Breslau, and Kattowitz to Auschwitz. It is a very heavy, extremely crowded train.” The major smiled down at Drayst. “He will just fit into it.” Drayst made more noises. “He sounds like a drowning duck,” the Sturmbannfuehrer said. “You may be sure, my General, that he will travel with the first selection and that there will be no delays about his personal final solution at Auschwitz.”

“The Military Governor asked me to see him actually put on the train,” Veelee said.

“Very good, my General.” The Sturmbannfuehrer made a ceremony of selecting exactly the right seal for the papers, then stamped each of the copies smartly and, keeping one copy, handed the others to the sergeant. “Load him,” he said. The sergeant saluted and grabbed Drayst and half lifted and half carried him to the door. The Sturmbannfuehrer clicked his heels loudly and made a slight bow to Veelee.

As Paule reached the door, Veelee behind her, the radio in the room suddenly crackled and the Sturmbannfuehrer turned up the volume in anticipation of an announcement.

“Attention, please! In just a few moments the Fuehrer will be on the air.” On the threshold the sergeant, still dragging Drayst, stopped and turned. Paule and Veelee came back into the room to listen, and the sergeant pulled the prisoner backward and dropped him on a chair. When Drayst began to make his awful noises again, the sergeant pulled his pistol out and turned it in his hand, making its butt a club. He stared down at Drayst and the mewing, gagging sounds stopped.

Like a sudden, terrible blow, the Fuehrer's iron, saber-toothed voice exploded out of the loudspeaker at them.

“My German comrades!

If I speak to you today it is first in order that you should hear my voice and should know that I am unhurt and well, and secondly, that you should know of a crime unparalleled in German history. A very small clique of ambitious, irresponsible and, at the same time, senseless and stupid officers had concocted a plot to eliminate me and, with me, the staff of the High Command of the Wehrmacht. The bomb planted by Colonel Count von Stauffenberg exploded two meters to the right of me. It seriously wounded a number of my true and loyal collaborators, one of whom has died. I myself am entirely unhurt, aside from some very minor scratches, bruises, and burns.”

Veelee held Paule's shoulders tightly, as though to protect her from the attack of that voice. He thought of von Stuelpnagel and of the fact that they were now as good as dead. From every ten conspirators the Gestapo would extract the names of a hundred more, until German ground was hot and soft with running German blood.

“I regard this as a confirmation of the task imposed upon me by Providence.

The circle of usurpers is very small and has nothing in common with the spirit of the German Wehrmacht and, above all, none with the German people. It is a gang of criminal elements which will be destroyed without mercy.”

The Fuehrer's voice rose hysterically.

“We will not again be stabbed in the back as in 1918. I will root out these traitors and destroy them, and their women, and their children. I, your Fuehrer, will live on to change the world, while these betrayers, to the last man and child, will be killed like cattle, unworthy of my greatness.”

There was a threatening pause while they stared at the radio, and then the Reichsmarschall's voice was heard. The little unit of listeners dispersed: the sergeant pulled Drayst to his feet and flung him out of the room; Veelee nodded his good night to the Sturmbannfuehrer; the officer clicked his heels and bowed as they left the shack.

The Sturmbannfuehrer made notations in his charge book, recorded Veelee's instructions, and then turned to the orderly typing at the back of the room and shouted that he wanted to send a telegram.

As the Sturmbannfuehrer spoke, the orderly typed:

RF   SS

SICHERHEITSDIENST

21ST JULY 1944

IV J 225A

NO
.
7

TO
:
REICHSSICHERHEITSHAUPTAMT REFERAT IV4B HERRN OBERSTURMBANNFUEHRER EICHMANN
(
OR DEPUTY IN CASE OF ABSENCE
)
BERLIN

ALSO
:

TO
:
THE INSPECTOR OF THE OREINBURH CONCENTRATION CAMP

TO
:
THE CONCENTRATION CAMP AUSCHWITZ

ON 21 JULY 1944 TRANSPORTATION TRAIN NO
.
1901
/
31 HAS LEFT THE DEPARTURE STATION LE BOURGET DRANCY IN THE AUSCHWITZ DIRECTION WITH 1224 JEWS
.

THE PERSONS AFFECTED ARE IN ACCORDANCE WITH DIRECTIVES
.

THE LEADER OF THE TRANSPORT IS SERGEANT-MAJOR GELDWASSER WHO HAS BEEN GIVEN THE LIST OF NAMES IN DUPLICATE
.

RATIONS AS USUAL ISSUED FOR SEVEN DAYS PER JEW
.

URGENT
:
PROCESSING OF JEW
563872
CAR
1184
MUST BE EXPEDITED AT EARLIEST BY SPECIAL ORDER
,
MILITARY GOVERNOR FOR FRANCE AND EXPEDITION CONFIRMED TO UNDERSIGNED
.

JOACHIM NOLANDER

SS STURMBANNFUEHRER

Paule and Veelee held each other's hands as they watched Drayst being dragged out of the truck at the railroad siding. Drayst struggled violently as he caught sight of them and screamed through his bandages at them, his hands and arms outstretched and shuddering. The two SS men opened the padlocks on Car 1184 and rolled the door back. Under the single electric bulb on the siding scores of pale faces stared out of the freight car at them. None of them spoke or made a sound, but their eyes accused God.

“No!” Paule cried out. “No! No!” The sergeant dragged Drayst toward the open train as Paule ran toward them. Using all of her strength, she tried to pull Drayst and the sergeant back with her, begging them to stop. As the sergeant rammed Drayst into the mass of bodies Drayst spun, his eyes pleading with Paule. A bleating cry exploded from his throat, but the sound was muffled as the door was slammed shut. She could still hear him as the two SS men snapped the padlocks.

Paule ran to Veelee and held his shoulders, shaking him. “What will we do?” she sobbed. “For the rest of our lives, what will we do?”

He stared at her stolidly, unable to comprehend the change. “We have killed a monster,” he said at last.

Her eyes were deadened. “We have become the monster,” she said as the train began to move and Drayst's sounds melted into the noises of furious steam. She turned away, sobbing helplessly, and began to run toward the retreating light on the last car of the train. “Papa! Help me! Please, Papa, help me!” She ran faster and shouted after the train. “Franz! Set to!” she pleaded. “Franz! Set to!”

About the Author

Richard Condon was born in New York City. He worked in the movie business for more than twenty years before beginning to write fiction in his forties. The author of twenty-six books, he is best remembered for
The Manchurian Candidate
and four novels about the Prizzis, a family of New York gangsters. Condon passed away in 1996.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1964 by Richard Condon

Cover design by Jason Gabbert

ISBN 978-1-5040-2772-4

This 2016 edition published by
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/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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EBOOKS BY RICHARD CONDON

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