Black Cross

didn’t stink so bad in winter. The complaints had started coming in just after noon. Several Dornow families were dealing with backed up sewage, and they didn’t like it. So of course old Kleber had been called away from his warm fire to root through the filthy tunnel with his Wehrmacht flashlight.

The old man shone the beam southward, where the tunnel ran for nearly a mile before emptying into the Recknitz River. The tunnel itself was five feet high, with iron rungs set in its sides to assist maintenance workers. Only a trickle of waste flowed in the narrow channel at its bottom. That meant the blockage must be to the north, closer to the village.

Seconds after Kleber turned in that direction, his torch illuminated the corpse of a dog — a shepherd by the look of him — lying with its fanged mouth open in the middle of the shallow sewage stream. He had no idea why a dog would have entered the sewer, unless it was starving, which didn’t appear to be the case. The old man scratched his chin and moved cautiously forward.

“Ach,” he grumbled, as the torch beam lit up a thick tangle of branches, mud, raw sewage, and rats. Kleber unclipped a heavy, short-handled rake from his belt and, after beating away the rats, began pulling away branches. It was heavy work for a man of his years. He laid the flashlight on an iron rung and went to work with both hands. He could hear the rats splashing around him.

“Dirty shit-eaters,” he cursed.

Then his rake hooked into something that would not give. Kleber let go of the handle and picked up his flashlight.

“Mein Gott,” he whispered, stumbling backward.

The metal teeth of his rake were caught in the sodden brown trousers of an SS man. A dead SS man. As the light beam played over the waxy features of the corpse, Kleber realized with horror that the body was lying in the arms of another. This was what had caused the branches and other flotsam to collect here.

And the rats.

He stood there a few moments, thinking. For two days the SS had been combing the hills with dogs, and in ever-increasing numbers. What they might be looking for had been the subject of quiet but extensive speculation in the main tavern in Dornow. Kleber figured he knew now what they were looking for. He shook his head slowly, then turned and splashed back up the tunnel to raise the alarm.

Otto Buch, Burgermeister of Dornow, sat silently at his desk and tried to look appropriately submissive as the senior SS security officer of Totenhausen Camp shouted at him about parachutes, Polish partisans, and traitors. He really had no idea why this one-eyed war hero thought a village mayor could do anything about his problem. Buch had exactly two police officers under his command, one of whom was the old grandfather who had discovered the bodies. If things weren’t so damned serious, he would have laughed. He found it funny that it was an interruption in the orderly flow of fecal matter that had brought a flood of the same substance down upon his head.

“Sturmbannfuhrer Schorner,” Buch said soothingly, “you have viewed the bodies yourself?”

“You see my uniform covered with excrement, do you not?”

Buch wrinkled his nose. “It is difficult to ignore, Sturmbannfuhrer. But allow me to inquire: have you formed an opinion as to how these men died?”

“They were shot in the back with an automatic weapon!”

Buch folded his hands over his substantial belly. “Sturmbannfuhrer, we in Dornow make every effort to assist the SS at Totenhausen, despite the great secrecy that surrounds your facility. But this . . .” — he waved his hand — “this sounds to me like a military problem.”

Schorner raised himself to his full height. “It is about to become a civilian problem, Burgermeister. As soon as I can get enough troops here, I am going to conduct a house-to-house search of the village.”

Otto Buch’s face reddened. “Are you saying,” he spluttered indignantly, “that you suspect someone in this village of harboring anti-fascist partisans?”

“I am.”

“Well I don’t believe it! I’ve known everyone here for years! The only people I might even consider as suspects would be the civilian support personnel who have moved here since your camp was built.”

Schorner listened as a motorcycle skidded to a stop in the street below the mayor’s office. He moved to the window and saw the SS rider charging into the first floor doorway below. Schorner had the office door open by the time the rider reached the top of the stairs.

The rider pulled off his goggles and saluted sharply. “You’re wanted at the camp immediately, Sturmbannfuhrer! Herr Doktor Brandt has ordered a selection!”

“A selection?”

“Yes, sir.” The messenger glanced at the portly mayor.

“You may speak freely,” Schorner said.

“The Herr Doktor said something about testing new suits from Raubhammer.”

“I am not needed for that,” Schorner said with annoyance. “I have pressing business here.”

“Is that what I should tell the Herr Doktor?”

“Tell him I have an emergency here. Hauptscharfuhrer Sturm can easily stand in for me during a sel—” Schorner froze in midsentence.

Otto Buch narrowed his eyes with curiosity. “Sturmbannfuhrer?” he said softly. “Are you all right?”

Schorner’s good eye focused on the mayor for an instant. Then he snatched the goggles from the messenger, bolted down the stairs and into the street.

The SS man and the mayor reached the window just in time to see him roar off on the motorcycle in the direction of Totenhausen.

39

Klaus Brandt stood in the snow before the steps of his hospital, a look of impatience on his face. He glared at his watch, then motioned for Sergeant Sturm to join him.

“I’m tired of waiting, Hauptscharfuhrer,” he said. “We’ll start without him.”

Sturm nodded crisply. “Ready when you are, Herr Doktor. Will you be making the selection?”

“Not today. There are no specific medical criteria. I need three subjects. Choose whomever you wish.”

Sturm suppressed a smile. “Zu befehl, Herr Doktor. Heil Hitler!”

Rachel Jansen backed out of the latrine shed holding Hannah on her left hip and gripping Jan’s hand with her right. When she turned, she saw Sergeant Sturm and three SS men waiting for her.

The struggle was one-sided and brief. Two storm troopers jerked the children away while Sturm and the fourth man pinned Rachel’s arms. She was screaming and crying at once as they dragged her away, her eyes on her children. Jan stared after her with wide eyes, then bent over Hannah, who lay motionless on the snow.

“Third time pays for all,” Sturm growled in her ear, as they passed through the block gate and into the Appellplatz. “This time I’ve got permission to kill you.”

Rachel smelled garlic and blood sausage on his breath.

“I want you to know something,” he went on. “After you’re dead, I’ll be getting those diamonds back from you. You think about that while you’re breathing the gas, eh? Three Jews in an oven.”

Rachel’s feet hung just above the ground as they marched her across the yard. Near the hospital steps she saw a knot of men. All wore earth-brown uniforms except one, who stood a little apart.

The shoemaker.

Three Jews in an oven? Rachel heard someone shouting behind her. She recognized the voice before she turned — Benjamin Jansen, her father-in-law. Now she understood. Sturm had found some way to get rid of everyone who had witnessed the incident with the diamonds. They dropped her beside the shoemaker. Sturm moved off to speak with Brandt, leaving her under the guard of four storm troopers.

“Don’t try to run,” the shoemaker said.

“We’re going to the gas,” Rachel told him.