Wilhelm Strasse — the crowds were straining at the metal barriers for a glimpse of celebrity: a film star, a footballer, a Party satrap in town for the Fuhrertag. As March and Charlie passed it, a Mercedes was drawing up, its black- uniformed passengers bathed in the light of a score of flashguns.
March drove straight over the Platz into Unter den Linden, turned left and then right into Dorotheen Strasse. He parked among the dustbins at the back of the Prinz Friedrich Karl Hotel. It was here, over breakfast with Rudi Halder, that this business had really begun. When was that? He could not remember.
The manager of the Friedrich Karl was habitually clad in an old-fashioned black jacket and a pair of striped pants and he bore a striking resemblance to the late President Hindenburg. He came bustling out to the front desk, smoothing a large pair of white whiskers as if they were pets. “Sturmbannfuhrer March, what a pleasure! What a pleasure indeed! And dressed for relaxation!”
“Good afternoon, Herr Brecker. A difficult request. I must have a room.”
Brecker threw up his hands in distress. “It is impossible! Even for as distinguished a customer as yourself.”
“Come, Herr Brecker. You must have something. An attic would do, a broom cupboard. You would be rendering the Reichskriminalpolizei the greatest assistance…”
Brecker’s elderly eye travelled over the luggage and came to rest on Charlie, at which point a gleam entered it. “And this is Frau March?”
“Unfortunately, no.” March put his hand on Brecker’s sleeve and guided him into a corner, where they were watched with suspicion by the elderly receptionist. “This young lady has information of a crucial character, but we wish to interrogate her …how shall I put it?”
“In an informal setting?” suggested the old man. “Precisely!” March pulled out what was left of his life savings and began peeling off notes. “For this 'informal setting' the Kriminalpolizei naturally would wish to reimburse you handsomely.”
“I see.” Brecker looked at the money and licked his lips. “And since this is a matter of security, no doubt you would prefer it if certain formalities — registration, for example -were dispensed with?”
March stopped counting, pressed the entire roll of notes into the manager’s moist hands and closed his fingers around it.
In return for bankrupting himself March was given a kitchen maid’s room in the roof, reached from the third floor by a rickety back staircase. They had to wait in the reception for five minutes while the girl was turned out of her home and fresh linen was put on the bed. Herr Brecker’s repeated offers to help with their luggage were turned down by March, who also ignored the lascivious looks which the old man kept giving Charlie. He did, however, ask for some food — some bread, cheese, ham, fruit, a flask of black coffee — which the manager promised to bring up personally. March told him to leave it in the corridor.
“It’s not the Adlon,” said March when he and Charlie were alone. The little room was stifling. All the heat in the hotel seemed to have risen and become trapped beneath the tiles. He climbed on a chair to tug open the attic window and jumped down in a shower of dust.
“Who cares about the Adlon?” She flung her arms around him, kissed him hard on the mouth.
The manager set down the tray of food as instructed outside the door. Climbing the stairs had almost done for him. Through three centimetres of wood, March listened to his ragged breathing, and then to his footsteps retreating along the passage. He waited until he was sure the old man had gone before retrieving the tray and setting it on the flimsy dressing table. There was no lock on the bedroom door, so he wedged a chair under the handle.
March laid Luther’s case on the hard wooden bed and took out his pocket knife.
The lock had been fashioned to withstand exactly this sort of assault. It took five minutes of hacking and twisting, during which he snapped one short blade, before the fastener broke free. He pulled the bag open.
That papery smell again — the odour of a long-sealed filing cabinet or desk drawer, a whiff of typewriter oil. And behind that, something else: something antiseptic, medicinal …
Charlie was at his shoulder. He could feel ^her warm breath on his cheek. “Don’t tell me. It’s empty.”
“No. It’s not empty. It’s full.”
He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his hands. Then he turned the case upside down and shook the contents out on to the counterpane.
FOUR
AFFIDAVIT SWORN BY WILHELM STUCKART, STATE SECRETARY, INTERIOR MINISTRY:
[4 pages; typewritten]
On Sunday 21 December 1941, the Interior Ministry’s Adviser on Jewish Affairs, Dr Bernhard Losener, made an urgent request to see me in private. Dr Losener arrived at my home in a state of extreme agitation. He informed me that his subordinate, the Assistant Adviser on Racial Affairs, Dr Werner Feldscher, had heard “from a fully reliable source, a friend” that the one thousand Jews recently evacuated from Berlin had been massacred in the Rumbuli Forest in Poland. He further informed me that his feelings of outrage were sufficient to prevent him from continuing his present employment in the Ministry, and he therefore requested to be transferred to other duties. I replied that I would seek clarification on this matter.
The following day, at my request, I visited Obergruppenfuhrer Reinhard Heydrich in his office in Prinz- Albrecht Strasse. The Obergruppenfuhrer confirmed that Dr Feldscher’s information was correct, and pressed me to discover its source, as such breaches of security could not be tolerated. He then dismissed his adjutant from the room and said that he wished to speak to me on a private basis.
He informed me that in July he had been summoned to the Fuhrer’s headquarters in East Prussia. The Fuhrer had spoken to him frankly in the following terms: He had decided to resolve the Jewish Question once and for all. The hour had arrived. He could not rely upon his successors having the necessary will or the military power which he now commanded. He was not afraid of the consequences. People presently revered the French Revolution, but who now remembered the thousands of innocents who died? Revolutionary times were governed by their own laws. When Germany had won the war, nobody would ask afterwards how we did it. Should Germany lose the mortal struggle, at least those who had hoped to profit from the defeat of National Socialism would be wiped out. It was necessary to remove the biological bases of Judaism once and for all. Otherwise the problem would erupt to plague future generations. That was the lesson of history.
Obergruppenfuhrer Heydrich stated further that the necessary powers to enable him to implement this Fuhrer Order had been granted to him by Reichsmarschall Goering on 31.7.41. These matters would be discussed at the forthcoming inter-departmental conference. In the meantime, he urged me to use whatever means I considered necessary to discover the identity of Dr Feldscher’s source. This was a matter of the highest security classification.
I thereupon suggested that, in view of the grave issues involved, it would be appropriate, from a legal point of view, to have the Fuhrer Order placed in writing. Obergruppenfuhrer Heydrich stated that such a course was impossible, due to political considerations, but that if I had any reservations I should take them up with the Fuhrer personally. Obergruppenfuhrer Heydrich concluded our meeting by remarking in a jocular manner that we should have no cause for concern on legalistic grounds, considering that I was the Reich’s chief legal draftsman and he was the Reich’s chief policeman.
I hereby swear that this is a true record of our conversation, based upon notes taken by myself that same evening.
SIGNED, Wilhelm Stuckart (attorney)
