Winter of the World (Century Trilogy 2)

fisherman’s basket and begged to be fried.

Pastor Ochs was one such.

Macke read his letter again. It was addressed to the Justice Minister, Franz Gurtner.

Dear Minister,

Is the government killing handicapped children? I ask you this question bluntly because I must have a plain answer.

What a fool! If the answer was No, this was a criminal libel; if Yes, Ochs was guilty of revealing state secrets. Could he not figure that out for himself ?

After it became impossible to ignore rumours circulating in my congregation, I visited the Wannsee Children’s Nursing Home and spoke to its director, Professor Willrich. His responses were so unsatisfactory that I became convinced something terrible is going on, something that is presumably a crime and unquestionably a sin.

The man had the nerve to write of crimes! Did it not occur to him that accusing government agencies of illegal acts was itself an illegal act? Did he imagine he was living in a degenerate liberal democracy?

Macke knew what Ochs was complaining about. The programme was called Aktion T4 after its address, Tiergarten Strasse 4. The agency was officially the Charitable Foundation for Cure and Institutional Care, though it was supervised by Hitler’s personal office, the Chancellery of the Fuhrer. Its job was to arrange the painless deaths of handicapped people who could not survive without costly care. It had done splendid work in the last couple of years, disposing of tens of thousands of useless people.

The problem was that German public opinion was not yet sophisticated enough to understand the need for such deaths, so the programme had to be kept quiet.

Macke was in on the secret. He had been promoted to Inspector and had at last been admitted to the Nazi party’s elite paramilitary Schutzstaffel, the SS. He had been briefed on Aktion T4 when he was assigned to the Ochs case. He felt proud: he was a real insider now.

Unfortunately, people had been careless, and there was a danger that the secret of Aktion T4 would get out.

It was Macke’s job to plug the leak.

Preliminary inquiries had swiftly revealed that there were three men to be silenced: Pastor Ochs, Walter von Ulrich, and Werner Franck.

Franck was the elder son of a radio manufacturer who had been an important early supporter of the Nazis. The manufacturer himself, Ludwig Franck, had initially made furious demands for information about the death of his disabled younger son, but had quickly fallen silent after a threat to close his factories. Young Werner, a fast-rising officer in the Air Ministry, had persisted in asking awkward questions, trying to involve his influential boss, General Dorn.

The Air Ministry, said to be the largest office building in Europe, was an ultra-modern edifice occupying an entire block of Wilhelm Strasse, just around the corner from Gestapo headquarters in Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Macke walked there.

In his SS uniform he was able to ignore the guards. At the reception desk he barked: ‘Take me to Lieutenant Werner Franck immediately.’

The receptionist took him up in an elevator and along a corridor to an open door leading into a small office. The young man at the desk did not at first look up from the papers in front of him. Observing him, Macke guessed he was about twenty-two years old. Why was he not with a front-line unit, bombing England? The father had probably pulled strings, Macke thought resentfully. Werner looked like a son of privilege: tailored uniform, gold rings, and over-long hair that was distinctly unmilitary. Macke despised him already.

Werner wrote a note with a pencil then looked up. The amiable expression on his face died quickly when he saw the SS uniform, and Macke noted with interest a flash of fear. The boy immediately tried to cover up with a show of bonhomie, standing up deferentially and smiling a welcome, but Macke was not fooled.

‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ said Werner. ‘Please be seated.’

‘Heil Hitler,’ said Macke.

‘Heil Hitler. How can I help you?’

‘Sit down and shut up, you foolish boy,’ Macke spat.

Werner struggled to hide his fear. ‘My goodness, what can I have done to incur such wrath?’

‘Don’t presume to question me. Speak when you’re spoken to.’

‘As you wish.’

‘From this moment on you will ask no further questions about your brother Axel.’

Macke was surprised to see a momentary look of relief pass over Werner’s face. That was puzzling. Had he been afraid of something else, something more frightening than the simple order to stop asking questions about his brother? Could Werner be involved in other subversive activities?

Probably not, Macke thought on reflection. Most likely Werner was relieved he was not being arrested and taken to the basement in Prinz Albrecht Strasse.

Werner was not yet completely cowed. He summoned the nerve to say: ‘Why should I not ask how my brother died?’

‘I told you not to question me. Be aware that you are being treated gently only because your father has been a valued friend of the Nazi party. Were it not for that, you would be in my office.’ That was a threat everyone understood.

‘I’m grateful for your forbearance,’ Werner said, struggling to retain a shred of dignity. ‘But I want to know who