March Battalion (17 page)

He must master this weakness. There must be no going under at the last moment. He owed it to Little John, to Porta, to all the others out there - all those men who were so firmly on his side, who identified themselves with him and yet whose job it was to fire upon him. The sailors in blue, the boys of the tank regiment in black, and the condemned man in green. A pretty picture.

Lindenberg raised his head and his eyes met those of Little John, standing at the end of the platoon, towering above the rest of his companions. Lindenberg signalled him a last, forgiving smile. Almost imperceptibly, Little John raised his rifle until it was no longer pointing at the small piece of white rag, but at a point over and above Lindenberg's left shoulder. There was nothing that Little John could personally do to stop the execution, but at least he would not fire on a friend. Seconds later, Porta's rifle took the same direction as Little John's. A profound sense of gratitude filled Lindenberg. He was moved by their simple act of friendship, and the tears that trickled so warmly down his cheeks were not the tears of weakness and he felt no shame.

One of the soldiers suddenly fainted. A young boy, scarcely more than eighteen years old. He crumpled and fell forward on to his face. His spectacles tinkled on the flagstones, his rifle clattered from his hand. No one paid the least attention.

'Poor little devil, he's far too young for this sort of thing.'

It was Lindenberg's last conscious thought. The next moment, the rifles cracked. There was one anguished cry, then silence.

Lt. Ohlsen stepped forward, revolver in hand, but the coup de grace was not necessary: Lindenberg was dead. Ohlsen stood for a moment looking down at the body, his face set and expressionless, then quietly stepped back into line. At a sign from the Medical Officer the two orderlies picked up their stretcher, heaved the body upon it and disappeared through the small door that led to the crematorium. The first platoon was marched off towards the barracks. The Professor was hauled to .his feet. Nearby, very quietly and with no fuss or bother, someone was vomiting.

Little John and Porta walked back side by side. 'You just wait,' muttered Little John. 'You just wait until it's our turn to have a go at them. The bastards.'

There was no need to explain who 'they' were: Porta knew automatically.

'That'll be the day,' he said. 'And we'll bloody well make sure we know what we're aiming at, too. I should hate to miss!'

Five o'clock was striking. Exactly twenty minutes had passed since Lindenberg had been marched from his cell. By eleven o'clock that morning Hauptfeldwebel Dorn had tied up the whole affair and was able to dismiss it from his mind. The relevant papers had been filled in, all the necessary forms completed. The total cost of the operation he had calculated at 1,290.05 marks. Major Divalordy's rubber stamp had been used wherever a signature was required, and the whole lot had been sealed in an official envelope and put out for posting. That was that. The matter was over and done with, and a good morning's work. The Hauptfeldwebel was able to relax.

Dorn lolled back in his chair, his feet on the table, one of the Major's cigars between his fingers. He opened one of his desk drawers and fumbled furtively beneath the 'Volkischer Beobachter' for pornography, then settled down with a contented sigh to study the more lewd of the pictures through a magnifying glass.

The middle of the day was Dorn's best time. Everyone else was fully occupied, going about his work, and no one came to disturb him. Those who dared intrude too often upon his privacy were soon made aware of Dorn's displeasure, and none but the most stupid or the most zealous ever came to him with prison business during the middle hours of the day. The telephone was an exception: it did, occasionally, trouble him by ringing, and annoying though it was it could hardly be ignored. It rang now, barely ten minutes after Dorn had lit his cigar and settled down to enjoy his well-earned rest. He answered irritably.

'Dorn here. Who's speaking?'

It was a feldwebel, wanting to know what he should do with Lindenberg's belongings.

'What sort of belongings? Anything interesting?'

'Not really, sir. Only a load of sloppy letters and other bits of tat.'

'Send it all to the court martial,' said Dorn, studying one of his pornographic photographs through the magnifying glass and feeling a pleasant sensation run through his body. 'They might find it useful for wiping their arses on ... Oh, and feldwebel--' His voice took on a more stringent note - 'while I've got you on the phone, perhaps you'd like to be reminded of the fact that I am an extremely busy man and do not care to be disturbed on account of trivialities. Use your initiative, feldwebel. I shan't tell you again.'

'Very well, sir.'

Dorn replaced the receiver and returned to his cigar and his photographs. Five minutes later, there was a second interruption. A sharp rap at the door and two men entered, without waiting for an invitation. They were dressed like twins. Each wore a soft felt hat, with the brim turned well down, brown shoes that squeaked as they walked,.and long leather coats buttoned to the neck. Their faces were different, but their eyes were the same: light grey in colour, cold and menacing in expression. Dorn looked across at them, insolently, without removing his feet from the table. At the same time he felt regiments of cold wet feet marching up and down his spine, and involuntarily he shivered.

'To what do I owe this interruption?' he demanded.

'Difficult to say, really.' The taller of the two men turned to his companion. 'To what do you suppose he owes this interruption?'

'It could be we want to have a few words with him, perhaps?' 'What is this?' said Dorn. 'Who are you?'

'Katz and Schroder.' It sounded like a music hall comedy team. 'Katz and Schroder, come to pay you a visit. That's who we are.'

The taller man, who appeared to be Katz, smiled smoothly at Dorn.

'Aren't you going to offer us a drink, Hauptfeldwebel?'

Dorn regarded the two men with astonishment. There was something about them that made him feel definitely uneasy, but he was determined not to capitulate. His conscience, after all, was clear. Whoever they were, whoever had sent them, he had nothing to fear. Nevertheless, they did make him feel uneasy. He slowly removed his feet from the desk and slid the pornography back into its hiding place.

'I'm sorry, gentlemen. I have only water to offer you. You can always get beer from the canteen, of course.'

'Of course,' agreed Schroder, with a smile. 'That is as it should be. You're doing quite well so far ... But while I think of it, Hauptfeldwebel: no more feet on the table, eh? It is, after all, the property of the Fuhrer.'

'What do you want here?' asked Dorn, cautiously. This is a military establishment. Nothing to do with civilians.'

The two civilians exchanged delighted smiles and said nothing. Dorn stood up and leaned towards them, hands on the desk.

'If you don't intend explaining yourselves I shall be forced to call the guard and have you removed. This is my office and I am a busy man. I strongly resent your manner, and your behaviour. You have absolutely no right to come bursting in here without permission. Either state your case or get out.'

Dorn had delivered his threat. There was nothing else he could do. He stood back to await results.

'Bravo,' murmured Schroder, vaguely.

He sniffed the air and turned to Katz.

'He may not be able to offer us a drink,' he said, 'but by the smell of things the man smokes a good cigar. And by the laws of hospitality,' he told Dorn, 'I think you should at least hand round the box.'

It was almost as if Dorn had never spoken. It was a direct insult and he was left with no alternative. Tight-lipped, he reached out a hand and pressed the bell for the guard. Katz laughed in his face.

'One guard won't be nearly enough ... we'll need at least three! Three strong and stupid men. The stronger and stupider they are, the better ... And we shall also require a table, a typewriter, three chairs and two lamps with 500 watt bulbs. Do you have all that? Because it's your job, Hauptfeldwebel, to supply it.'

Dorn gaped at the man.

'What on earth are you talking about? What have you come here for?'

'Really,' said Schroder, smothering a yawn, 'if he only had the strength to match his stupidity--'

He was interrupted by the arrival of the guard, marched up to the office by a sergeant.

'Here's your guard,' said Schroder, without turning round. 'What do you want him for?'

Dorn swallowed a few times, then shot out a finger.

'Get out, you idiots! Can't you see I have company?'

The guard opened his eyes wide and the sergeant was heard to mutter the word 'alarm'. The sight of the two cretinous, staring faces was too much for Dorn.

'Get out!' he screamed. 'How many times do I have to repeat an order before you decide to obey it?'

The guard and the sergeant hastily saluted and left the room. Dorn mopped his brow with the back of his hand and wondered whether he would have more authority standing up or sitting down. He decided, for the moment, to remain standing, but his arms presented a problem. They dangled at his side and were a nuisance. He put them behind his back and felt like a schoolboy; then he clasped them in front and felt like a priest; then he let them fall limply of their own accord and they hung down to his knees, with his hands like ton weights at the end of each wrist and embarrassed him. He was aware, all the time, of Katz and Schroder watching him and smiling at his dis comfiture.

'Are you ready?' asked Schroder, softly.

'Ready for what?' Dorn turned on his questioner with a last attempt at keeping control of the situation. 'I don't know where you two gentlemen have come from, but I suggest you go back there immediately. You can have no possible business with me. In fact, you annoy me.'

'Did you hear that?' said Schroder. 'Can he really be so stupid as not to know where we come from?'

'It is possible,' said Katz. 'A lot of these people are extremely slow-witted.'

'I am at the end of my patience!' snapped Dorn. 'Either you leave my office immediately or I shall call Colonel Vogel - and that, I can promise you, will have most unpleasant consequences.'

'For Colonel Vogel.' Schroder nodded. 'Not for us. However, if he knew we were here I'm sure he would have enough sense to keep out of our way.'

Katz walked round the desk and sat himself down in Dorn's chair. He put his feet up on Dorn's desk. He opened a drawer and rummaged idly inside it. Then he undid the top button of his coat and leaned back, very much at ease. Dorn felt powerless to protest. Watching Katz, he had noticed a menacing bulge beneath his left arm, which could mean only one thing: the man was carrying a revolver. He glanced at Schroder and saw the same tell-tale signs. The sweat poured in great torrents down his back as he realized the truth.

'Are you from the Gestapo?'

The two men promptly fell about with laughter, as if Dorn had made the biggest joke of all time.

'He's quick,' spluttered Schroder. 'By Dachau, he's quick! You live on those sharp wits of yours, friend, and they should keep you going a good long time.'

'That is,' amended Katz, 'if he dies a natural death.'

'Of course.'

'And now--' Katz looked across at Dorn, trembling on the other side of the desk - 'let's get down to business. Katz and I are from the R.S.H.A. 4-2A and we should like to have a few words with you about the things that are going on inside this prison.'

'Things? What - things?'

'The assassination.'

Schroder spat vehemently on the floor and ground it in with his foot.

'He is not a gentleman,' thought Dorn, helplessly. 'He is not a gentleman or he wouldn't spit on my floor.'

'Where is he?' demanded Katz, suddenly.

Dorn forced himself to look away from the appalling spectacle of Schroder grinding his spittle into the carpet.

'Where is who?'

Katz snapped his fingers.

'The Madman of Torgau ... the lunatic ... the assassin. Where is he?'

Dorn stared dumbly from one man to another.

'All right,' said Katz, patiently. 'If the question's too complicated for you, don't bother to answer. Just get the man sent up here.'

'You want to speak to him?'

'That was the general idea.' Katz gave Dorn a kind smile that had no humour, no understanding behind it. 'Not that we don't find your company intensely stimulating, but unfortunately we can't spend all day in pursuit of pleasure. I know that you, as an avowedly very busy man, will appreciate our point of view. So just get the prisoner sent up here and let us be done with it.'

Dorn swallowed, hard. His intestines suddenly underwent a violent spasm and he felt sick.

'It's not - not possible--'

'What is not possible?' asked Katz, pleasantly.

'The criminal - he was sent before the firing squad this morning.' Dorn lifted a helpless hand. 'Dead and buried. The whole affair's closed.'

Schroder walked softly across the floor towards Dorn.

'Is this your idea of a joke?'

'Certainly not,' said Dorn. 'The man has been executed.'

Schroder exchanged glances with Katz and breathed heavily through his nose.

'In that case, my very busy friend, I have to tell you that you have personally sabotaged an inquiry into a crime committed against the State and at the same time infringed paragraph 619 of the Criminal Code. I take it you know what that means?'

Dorn's sweat glands redoubled their efforts. He felt cold and wet and sick. 'I can't possibly be held responsible. I don't give the orders around here, I simply prepared the papers.'

'Precisely.
You
prepared the papers.' Schroder whipped out a hand and seized Dorn by the collar of his tunic. 'I'm warning you, unless you can produce the murderer you're liable to find yourself facing a firing squad before very long. You prepared the papers, you took down the statements, you sifted the evidence, you did all the work - so you produce the murderer. Any murderer will do, but we've got to have one. Is that clear?'