Block. “We will deploy the dogs only at the last moment. We want them fresh.”
“Very good, Standartenfuhrer.”
They passed the rear of the cinema annex, which was contiguous to the headquarters building. As they reached the front door of the headquarters, it opened and a tall officer wearing a Waffen SS uniform and a black eyepatch stepped through it.
Wolfgang Schorner froze in midstep when he saw the SD uniform.
Stern calmly drew his Walther and aimed it at the astonished major. “Sturmbannfuhrer Wolfgang Schorner, by order of the Fuhrer I place you under arrest.”
Major Schorner stared in amazement at Sergeant Sturm, who had drawn his Luger, then looked back at Stern. “I beg your pardon, Standartenfuhrer?”
“You heard me. Relieve him of his pistol, Hauptscharfuhrer.”
Schorner made no move to resist as Sturm yanked his Luger from its holster. “Who is this man, Hauptscharfuhrer?”
Stern held up his hand. “I am Standartenfuhrer Ritter Stern from the
“I received no communication about your arrival.”
“Of course you didn’t. All will become clear in Berlin.”
“Berlin?” Schorner’s eyes moved up and down Stern’s uniform, taking in each button, patch, badge, crease, and stain. “Hauptscharfuhrer,” he said, “the Standartenfuhrer seems to be missing his dagger. Don’t you find that interesting?”
Stern waved his pistol toward the hospital, where the Mercedes waited. “To my car, Hauptscharfuhrer,” he said tersely.
But Gunther Sturm was looking at Schorner. Sturm knew the face of guilt, and as much as he hated the major, Schorner was not acting guilty of anything.
“I am perfectly willing to go to Berlin,” Schorner said equably. “But shouldn’t we at least ask to see this man’s papers first? An SD officer who loses his dagger is subject to arrest himself.”
Sturm looked uncertainly at Stern. “Standartenfuhrer?”
Stern glanced impatiently at his watch, an officer in a hurry. “You will regret this,” he said. He brought out his wallet and handed it to Sturm, who passed it straight to Schorner.
“These papers give you authority to inspect security arrangements at Totenhausen.” Schorner looked up. “Not to place me under arrest.”
“By statute, the SD has complete powers of examination and arrest over the SS,” Stern said. “I do not need a written order to arrest a traitor.” He lowered his voice to a menacing pitch. “Now, move to my car.”
“These orders are dated four days ago,” Schorner observed, not moving an inch. “Did it take you four days to drive up from Berlin?”
Before Stern could respond, Schorner said, “The suntan interests me as well. Has the sun begun shining in the Tiergarten in the dead of winter?”
Stern raised his pistol to Schorner’s face.
The major showed no sign of fear.
Stern wanted to pull the trigger, but he knew it would be the worst possible mistake he could make.
“Where
Stern forced himself not to look down at the empty sheath on his belt. This showed considerable nerve, considering that his mind had gone blank.
A bemused look crossed Schorner’s face. “With all respect, Standartenfuhrer, on what day did you receive your dagger?”
It was funny in a way, thought Stern. He was replaying the scene in the Jewish Women’s Block, when he had been questioned to prove he was a Jew. Only Major Schorner had not asked him what year it was on the Hebrew calendar. “I have not come here to answer your questions,” he snapped. “You will answer mine.”
Schorner glanced at Sturm. “What do you think, Hauptscharfuhrer? A simple enough question, don’t you think? Even you could answer that one.”
Gunther Sturm wore the expression of an attack dog being given commands by two masters. He hated Schorner viciously, but those very qualities he hated most made the idea of Schorner betraying Germany an impossibility. With agonizing slowness he turned until his Luger was aimed just to the right of Stern’s belly.
“If the Standartenfuhrer could answer the question?” he said in an apologetic tone. “When did you receive your dagger?”
Stern had always known this moment would come someday. A moment without options. A truly impossible situation. He had simply overestimated his abilities, while underestimating those of a combat veteran named Wolfgang Schorner. He thought of the cyanide capsule he had earlier transferred from his Star of David medallion into his pocket, but he felt no inclination to try to swallow it. No matter what the bastards did to him, they would not break him before the gas descended on the camp.
“I don’t recall the exact day,” he said. “It was 1940.”
“That’s interesting,” said Schorner, “since all ceremonial daggers are awarded only on November ninth.”
Stern looked at his watch. 7:40. His only thought was to give the women time to get the children to the E- Block. And he knew he could do that. “There is only one solution,” he said. “Call Obergruppenfuhrer Kaltenbrunner at SD headquarters in Berlin.” Stern reversed the Walther in his hand and handed it butt first to Sergeant Sturm.
Bewildered, the SS man accepted the weapon.
A faint smile touched Schorner’s mouth. “Where did you meet this man, Hauptscharfuhrer?” he asked.
“At the back gate, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
“You have someone guarding the gate now?”
“
“How many technicians are in the factory?”
“The full shift. Thirty-four men. They’re taking the place apart.”
Schorner nodded while he thought. “I want every one of the technicians moved into the cinema immediately and placed under guard. Then bolt every door on the factory. Clear?”
“
“One call to Berlin will tell me if the major here is fish or fowl. I want those technicians locked in the cinema by the time I’m off the phone. The civilian nurses as well. Every one of them. Get moving.”
Sergeant Sturm hurried into the headquarters building. Schorner turned back to Stern. “This has been most entertaining. If you are who you say you are, I will soon be without a dagger myself. If not, well. . . ” Schorner looked over Stern’s shoulder. “You’d better come with us, Schutze.”
With the barrel of a private’s rifle between his shoulder blades, Stern followed Schorner into the headquarters building. He stole one last glance at his watch as he passed through the door.
7:41.
“I’ve heard no explosion yet.”
“He’s still got nine minutes,” said McConnell from the kitchen table. He turned to the stove, where Anna stood warming herself. “Would we definitely hear a grenade on the hill?”
“Yes. I think we should go now. Something feels wrong to me.”
“That’s just nerves. It’s not time yet.”
McConnell was feeling butterflies himself, as if he were waiting to run the biggest race of his life. He had just gulped a large glass of water to make up for the fluid loss from a half hour inside his anti-gas suit. His air cylinder stood on the floor, the corrugated hose wrapped around it.
Anna turned from the stove. “I think they’ve caught him,” she said.
McConnell angrily slapped the table. “Then why haven’t we heard shooting? An alarm? Something? You think he would let them take him without a fight?”
“He might. His father is there, remember.”
McConnell took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. Arranged in front of him were his toggle rope, his clear vinyl head mask, the Mauser rifle he’d traded from Stan Wojik, and the bright swatch of tartan that Sir Donald
