Black Cross

Stern pushed her toward her bedroom, then shoved McConnell back onto the cellar stairs and pulled the door shut after them. When they reached the bottom, he said, “What the hell was that about?”

When McConnell didn’t answer, Stern poked him in the chest with the butt of his Schmeisser.

Like a striking snake McConnell drove his open hand into Stern’s chest and slammed him up against the wall.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he said.

Stern was so stunned by this reaction that he merely watched the American climb back to the top of the stairs and sit down beside the door. “She’ll be all right,” he said. “She’s managed this long without your help.”

McConnell glared down at him. “You don’t know anything. Schorner and Brandt could be planning to torture every nurse in that camp right now. You don’t know what those bastards are capable of.”

“And you do? What do you know about it, Doctor? You’ve spent the whole war hiding in England.”

McConnell descended the stairs and walked to the broken bookshelf near the far wall. He pulled Anna’s diary from behind the old account books and tossed it to Stern. “That’s what I know. You ought to read it sometime. It might even turn your stomach, though you want everyone to believe that’s impossible.”

Stern looked down at the diary. “Oh, it’s possible. And I know exactly what those bastards are capable of. They’ve been doing their worst to my people for ten years, remember?”

McConnell squatted on his haunches and stared at the floor. “Do you think they found the bodies? Or maybe the cylinders?”

“Not the bodies. Not that quickly.”

“Maybe we should wait on top of the hill,” McConnell said. “If it looks like the game’s up, you could still send the cylinders down into the camp.”

Stern opened his mouth, but did not speak. McConnell’s suggestion hung in the air like a challenge.

“I mean, if Schorner is onto us,” McConnell went on, “that would be our only chance to execute the mission.”

“Are you telling me that you’re willing to kill the prisoners now?” Stern asked.

“What else can we do?”

“Forget it, Doctor. We’re going to wait here.”

“And if they come for us?”

“If they come, I’ll hold them off as long as I can. You try to get around them and up the hill. The climbing spikes and harness are in my bag. You can send the gas down yourself.”

Stern looked as if he believed what he was saying, but McConnell knew better. If the SS came for them here, he would never reach the gas cylinders. He probably wouldn’t even make it out of the cottage. Stern had to know that. So what was keeping him from going up the hill to be in position to release the gas if it became necessary?

Something in his eyes kept McConnell from voicing the question.

The front gate of Totenhausen was wide open and waiting when the motorcycle carrying Anna Kaas reached the camp. The lance corporal raced across the parade ground and the Appellplatz and skidded to a stop before the hospital.

“They’re waiting in the basement,” he said. “The morgue.”

Anna climbed out of the sidecar and walked up the hospital steps. Inside and to the left was the stairwell. Two flights led up, one down. She walked through the door and went down.

In designing Totenhausen’s hospital, Klaus Brandt had given special attention to the morgue. For it was in this room that he did much of his work, analyzing the pathologic effects of his gases, and also of the meningococcus bacteria. Four autopsy tables stood in the center of the room, which was dominated by a mirrorlike wall that housed a set of stainless steel drawers, each of which could accommodate two adult male corpses, or four children.

Anna had a strong stomach, but she nearly fainted when she reached the bottom of the stairs. The autopsy table nearest her was bare, but the second was occupied by a naked man that, even from a distance, she instantly recognized as Stan Wojik. The Pole’s black beard was matted with blood, his battered head swollen, his massive body covered with cuts and bruises. Jonas Stern’s prediction had already come true — Anna had seen enough corpses to know — Stan Wojik was dead.

“Come in, Nurse,” called a voice from across the room.

Major Wolfgang Schorner stepped out from behind a rack of metal shelves. He was carrying a telephone in his left hand and speaking into the mouthpiece, which he held in his right. He waved Anna farther into the room.

“That is correct, Herr Doktor,” he said. “Two of Sturm’s men are missing. They never returned from patrol. Of course, they could be lying drunk in one of the local villages, but this time I don’t think so.”

Anna knew she should try to listen to the conversation, but it was difficult. Her eyes were drawn inexorably to the third autopsy table. Don’t look yet, said a voice in her head. You can’t stand it yet. She forced herself to watch Schorner. He was pacing now, carrying the phone with him on a long line.

“Beck still thinks the target is Peenemunde,” he was saying, “but I am not so sure anymore. I’m beginning to think the Allies may know about our facility after all. The Poles were caught between here and Peenemunde, but that tells us nothing about their activities or their target. Only questioning will do that. Standartenfuhrer Beck is on his way down from Peenemunde with a Gestapo interrogator.”

Schorner listened for a while, his face intense. “Herr Doktor, I don’t think you should bother yourself. You know the Gestapo. Yes, I absolutely agree. I’ll see that I’m present when they interrogate him. I’ve brought in one of the nurses to make the man presentable. Yes, Gute Nacht.”

Schorner put down the phone and signaled Anna over. She kept her eyes locked on his face. She did not want to meet the eyes of the man lying on the third table.

“I want this man cleaned up,” Schorner said. “He’s bruised a bit, but do what you can.”

There was no way to avoid it. Anna looked down.

Miklos Wojik stared up at her with the eyes of an animal caught in a steel trap. When he recognized her, he began to cry.

God forgive me, Anna thought desperately, but don’t let him say my name.

“How bad is he?” Schorner asked.

Anna pulled back the sheet that covered the young Pole’s body. It wasn’t nearly so bad as his brother’s. His emaciated chest was bruised, and one wrist looked like it might be fractured, but there were no cuts or burns. She cleared her throat.

“What happened to him, Sturmbannfuhrer?”

Schorner looked down at Miklos Wojik with clinical detachment. “He is a Polish partisan. I would have preferred to question the other man myself, but Hauptscharfuhrer Sturm and his men apprehended them both. Sturm decided to question them on the spot. As you can see, he allowed his zeal to override his professionalism.”

Anna looked back at the body of Stan Wojik. From this angle, she noticed that his genital area was particularly bruised — probably the result of repeated kicking. It was easy to imagine Sturm taking great pleasure in that. She wondered how the Hauptscharfuhrer would have fared against Stan Wojik without armed storm troopers to back him up.

“A Gestapo agent will arrive shortly to interrogate this man,” Schorner told her. “He is very annoyed that we have allowed one prisoner to expire prematurely. I trust you will have this one looking decent by the time he arrives.”

Anna nodded. “I’ll do what I can, Sturmbannfuhrer.”

“Bitte.” Schorner was staring into her eyes with almost priestlike intensity when the unmistakable crack of rifle fire echoed down the stairwell.

“Sturmbannfuhrer!” Anna cried. “What was that?”

Schorner had not moved a muscle. “Another reprisal,” he said quietly. “Hauptscharfuhrer Sturm believes there is more to the mystery of his lost patrol than whisky or easy women. He has convinced Brandt that shooting prisoners is the way to find out what. They’re being shot against the hospital wall.” Schorner made a disparaging