Bad Company

Ritter had given von Berger earphones and a throat mike. He spoke to him now. “I’ll take it very carefully. With our low speed and the weather, it could be three and a half hours, maybe even four to Holstein Heath. Most of the time, I’ll fly at two or three thousand, maybe higher if the weather continues bad.”

“That’s fine.”

The flight was difficult with the rain and the patchy fog, sometimes clear and at others swirling relentlessly. One hour, two, the whole trip became monotonous. Von Berger had passed the food bag to Hoffer, who opened it and handed the sandwiches and sausages around. The wine was cheap stuff with a screw cap and he poured it into paper cups. Even Ritter had some and held out the cup for a second helping.

“Come on, it won’t do me any harm. I need whatever help I can get in this weather.”

Von Berger finished his food, knocked back his wine and lit a cigarette. Rain beat on the windows. It was the strangest of sensations hammering through the bad early morning weather. What am I doing here? he thought. Is it a dream? I should be in Berlin. He shook his head. I should still be in Berlin.

And then he thought: But I’m not. I’m on the way home to see Elsa and little Otto and Karl will see his Lotte and the two girls. It’s a miracle and it’s because of the Fuhrer. There must be a meaning to it.

Ritter said, “It’s still a bit thick down here. I think we’ll be okay. I’m going up to four thousand.”

“Fine.”

They came out through intermittent fog. It was clear up there and clear to the horizon, a full moon touching the edge of the early morning clouds.

Suddenly, there was a roaring, and the Storch was thrown to one side in the turbulence as a plane banked away to starboard and returned to take up station on the starboard side. They could see the pilot in the cockpit, the Red Star on the fuselage.

“What have we got?” Ritter asked. “Looks like a Yak fighter, the new model with cannon. That could damage us.”

“So what do we do?”

“Well, I’m really too slow for him, but that could also be an advantage. Planes that are too fast sometimes overshoot. I’ll go down and hope he’ll do something stupid.”

He banked, went down fast to three thousand meters, then banked again to port, went to two. The Yak started to fire its cannon, but too soon, because of his excessive speed, and he overshot and banked away.

He came in again, and this time punched a couple of holes in the starboard wing and splintered the window. Ritter cried out and reared back and there was blood on his face.

Ritter said, “I’m okay, it’s just a splinter. It’ll give me an interesting scar. I’m getting tired of this – I’m going down further. I’ll show this bastard how to fly.”

He went hard, all the way, and leveled at five hundred feet. The Yak came in again on his tail and Ritter dropped his flaps. The Storch seemed to stand still, and the Yak had to bank steeply to avoid hitting them and went down into the farmland. There was a mushroom of flame below and they flew on.

“I said you were a genius,” von Berger told him.

“Only some of the time.”

Von Berger turned to Hoffer. “Get the battle pack open. Find a dressing for his face. Give him a morphine ampoule, too.”

Ritter said, “Better not. I’ll tell you what, however – open that other bottle, whatever it is.”

“I thought it was wine, but it’s vodka,” Hoffer told him.

“Good. I’m always better flying on booze.”

It was perhaps five or five-thirty in the morning that they came in toward Holstein Heath, approaching at two thousand feet, the dark, mysterious forest below, the Schwarze Platz, villages dotted here and there, and then Neustadt and Schloss Adler above it on the hill.

Von Berger felt incredibly emotional as the plane banked, very low, Ritter searching for a suitable landing.

“There,” von Berger growled. “The meadow by the castle.”

“I see it.” Ritter turned in, slowed and made a perfect landing, rolling to a halt.

In the quiet, it was Schneider who said, “I still can’t believe it. We were in Berlin and now we’re here.”

Behind them, a few people were coming up hesitantly from the village as von Berger and the others got out of the plane. Von Berger stood holding Hitler’s briefcase, as a dozen men and a few women approached.

The leader, an aging white-headed man, almost recoiled. “My God, it’s you, Baron.”

“A surprise, Hartmann,” von Berger said. “How are you?”

“Baron, what can I say?” Hartmann removed his cap, took von Berger’s hand and kissed it. “Such terrible times.” He turned to Hoffer. “And you, Karl.”

Von Berger said, “Here we are, safe by a miracle, from Berlin. I’ll explain later, but first I must see the Baroness, and Karl, his Lotte and the girls.”

Hartmann actually broke into weeping. “God help me, Baron, the news is bad. They are in the chapel at the Schloss.”

Von Berger froze. “What do you mean?”

“Your wife and son, Baron. Lotte and her daughters and fifteen villagers are in the church awaiting burial.” He turned to Hoffer. “I am so sorry.”

Hoffer was stunned, horror on his face. Von Berger said, “Who did this thing?”

“SS.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Einsatzgruppen.”

Einsatzgruppen were not Waffen SS, but extermination squads recruited from the jails of Germany, many of the men Ukrainians. Von Berger had heard stories, that in the last few weeks they had thrown off all restraints, started looting and killing on their own, but he had hardly believed it to be true.

He was moving in slow motion now. The dream was so bad it was unbelievable. He said to Hoffer, “You go and see to your family and I’ll see to mine.” He turned to Ritter. “You’d better be off. My deepest thanks.”

“No,” Ritter said, “I’ll stand by you. I’ll come with you, if I may.”

“That’s kind, my friend.”

They went up the steep path to the Schloss, von Berger and Ritter, followed by old Hartmann, and came to the ancient chapel. Von Berger pushed the door; it creaked open and he smelled the church smell, saw the memorials to his ancestors and the main family mausoleum, its doors standing wide. A coffin stood there, the lid half back, his wife inside, with his young son cradled in her left arm. He gazed down at her calm face, noticed the bruises.

“What happened to her?”

“Baron, what can I say?” Hartmann asked.

“Tell me,” von Berger said. “Was she violated?”

“Every woman in the village was, Baron. Then the Ukrainians got drunk and started shooting and the deaths happened.”

“How many of these bastards were there?”

“Twenty – twenty-one. They moved on to Plosen.”

Ten miles up the road through the forest.

“So, we know where they are.” Von Berger turned to Ritter.

“You can still go. I appreciate more than you know what you’ve done. As I told Strasser, things will change for all of us, and I’ll search you out.”

Ritter’s face, with the dressing on the cheek, was haggard. “I’ve no intention of going.”

“Then go down to the village with Hartmann and make sure his truck is ready to leave. I have private business here.”

Ritter and Hartmann left. Von Berger stood by the mausoleum for a while, then went to the rear, where there were two statues of saints. His hand passed inside one, it groaned and creaked open. He slipped the Fuhrer’s briefcase inside, then closed the secret door. He leaned over, kissed his wife and son, and left.