Pursuit (9 page)

And the bomb went off.

July 20 passed as every other day had passed since von Schraeder's arrival at Buchenwald; the radio in the command barrack was tuned, as always, to the Berlin station that furnished classical music. Von Schraeder found himself staring at the speaker of the radio, willing it to interrupt the Brahms they were playing, and get on with the dire announcement. But the radio remained true to its classical commitments. At five-thirty in the afternoon, the last to leave, he turned the set off and walked down to his car, frowning. Valkyrie had been postponed, that much was evident. Or, very possibly, it had come off and the authorities were keeping it quiet until they could figure out what to do. That, of course, was a distinct possibility, and one that made him feel better. On the other hand, Gehrmann could have gotten the date wrong, which would not be surprising. He would call Gehrmann at the War Ministry in the morning and see what information he could obtain. It would have to be done with a certain amount of circumspection, and Gehrmann would be nervous as the devil, but this did not bother von Schraeder. He had to know, one way or the other.

He dined alone, read for a brief period, and then went up to bed. But sleep would not come; it was too close to the time he had to make his decision. At last he sat up, took out a book, and put the radio on, tuning it to some martial music being played, and prepared to read himself into sleepiness. And then, suddenly, he sat up, every nerve tingling. The music had been abruptly cut off, in mid-note it seemed, and in the silence that fell a hysterical voice suddenly broke.

Von Schraeder permitted himself a broad smile. They had done it.
They had actually done it
. It didn't automatically mean amnesty, or that he would not need his own plan, but at least now there was a chancel He bent closer to the radio, not wishing to raise the volume, and listened for the first time to the actual words. And then he felt the blood drain from his face. The voice was too, too familiar.

“… if I speak to you today it is in order that you should hear my voice and should know that I am unhurt and well, and secondly you should know of a crime unparalleled in German history
.

“A very small clique of ambitious, irresponsible, and, at the same time, senseless and stupid officers have concocted a plot to eliminate me, and with me, the staff of the High Command of the Wehrmacht
.

“The bomb planted by Colonel Count Stauffenberg exploded two meters to the right of me. It seriously wounded a number of my true and loyal collaborators, one of whom has died. I, myself, am entirely unhurt, aside from some very minor scratches, bruises, and burns. I regard this as a confirmation of the task imposed upon me by Providence …”

Von Schraeder stared at the floor, barely hearing the strident voice. So the plot to assassinate Hitler had failed, but then he had never had any great hopes for its success. Besides, even had the plan been successful, he doubted the Allies would have agreed to amnesty. It was the reason he had developed his own plan. The voice on the radio was continuing.

“… the circle of these usurpers is very small and has nothing in common with the spirit of the German Wehrmacht and, above all, none with the German people. It is a gang of criminal elements which will be destroyed without mercy …”

Von Schraeder leaned over and switched the radio off. For a long time he stared at the floor; then he came to his feet and padded over to his dispatch case. He unlocked it and took out a sealed envelope that had been prepared over a month before. He opened it, checked the contents carefully, and then reached for the telephone. It took several minutes before the operator at the camp switchboard answered; von Schraeder could only assume they were listening to the radio. He cleared his throat.

“Dr. Schlossberg in Ward Forty-six,” he said into the telephone, and waited. When the ringing was finally answered, he said to the orderly at the other end, “This is Colonel von Schraeder. Tell Dr. Schlossberg I'm sorry to wake him, but I'm afraid I'm coming down with something.”

They sat in the small, sterile office of Dr. Schlossberg in Ward Forty-six, the colonel neat as always in his dapper uniform, the doctor with a laboratory coat over his pajamas.”

“… headache, vomiting. It's typhus, without a doubt,” von Schraeder said, looking the picture of health. He waited for the doctor to speak, but the thin baldheaded man sat silent, watching the colonel with no expression at all on his face. Von Schraeder smiled; the shock he had felt on hearing Hitler's voice when he was supposedly dead was now completely gone. Valkyrie had always been problematical at best; now it was time to put his own plan into effect. It was why he had perfected it, gone to such troubles with it, made such complicated arrangements over it. He watched the doctor's face. “I expect this attack will be fatal.”

“I'm sure,” said the doctor, again with no expression. “And after you are dead?”

“I expect to be cremated together with my uniform and any effects I brought with me to the ward. I expect to be put into a burial sack and placed into the crematorium without any autopsy, since they seldom do autopsies on typhus victims—”

“Not seldom,” Schlossberg said. “Never. It's the one disease we all respect around here.”

“I meant never,” von Schraeder said. “You may be sure I was quite informed on that point.”

“I'm sure.” The doctor closed his eyes a moment, as if resting them against the bright glare of the lights reflected from the tile walls, and then reopened them. “Of course, after Colonel von Schraeder is dead and cremated, someone will be born in his place.”

“Exactly. It's the law of life.”

“And who, exactly, will be born in the place of Colonel von Schraeder?”

Von Schraeder leaned forward, his eyes intent on the doctor's face.

“His name will be Benjamin Grossman. His papers are all here.” He tapped the envelope he had brought with him. “Grossman is in Ward Forty-six for experimental work, under your jurisdiction. When your experiments on him are complete—that is, when your plastic surgery is completely healed—then Benjamin Grossman is to be transferred to Natzweiler Camp in the Vosges. And your part in the matter will be forgotten.”

“Grossman?” The doctor stared. “You intend to take the identity of a
Jew
?”

“That is correct.” Von Schraeder smiled.

“And be transferred to a camp as an
inmate
?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you know what you are doing? You've seen how—” The doctor seemed to realize he had been on the verge of criticizing the SS treatment of prisoners. He changed his argument. “It will mean being circumcised, which can be extremely painful for an adult. And most of the prisoners—the Jews—speak Yiddish, and you don't. And—”

“I know everything it will mean,” Von Schraeder said calmly. “Believe me, I've studied this plan for many months. I know it will mean being circumcised, and I know it is painful. It also means extensive work on my face, and I'm not looking forward to that. Or having my head shaved, or any of the rest of it. Although,” he added, smiling, “after some of the barbers I've encountered in the camps, having my head shaved should be no great sacrifice—”

“Anyone who comes into Ward Forty-six as a patient has his head shaved in any event. It's a precaution against typhus.”

“I suppose so.” Von Schraeder shrugged. “And I shall have to starve myself, which is a pity, although I never allowed myself to get fat as a pig, like Mittendorf. And I shall either have to stop smoking, or discover how prisoners manage to get cigarettes, which I know they do, even without money.”

“And what of your not speaking Yiddish? Have you considered that?”

“I believe,” von Schraeder said evenly, “that I have considered every possible problem. In the part of Germany where I come from, the Jews never spoke Yiddish. They considered it—one of the few things they considered rightly—to be a bastard language fit for the Russians and the Poles, but far beneath the dignity of a German. And that's the kind of Jew Benjamin Grossman is. An upper-class German Jew.” He swung his chair around to face the doctor squarely. “Well? What do you think?”

“Of the scheme?”

“No, Of my face.”

Dr. Schlossberg nodded. Contrary to the colonel's idea, the doctor was really not surprised at all. He had long since come to the conclusion that it was his ability as a plastic surgeon that had accounted for his transfer to Buchenwald under von Schraeder's sponsorship.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “It is very possible. With no intent to insult you, Colonel, but merely speaking as a professional man, I may say that your face is remarkably without distinction. The features are small and quite regular. A slight change to the nose, the raising of an eyebrow, a small scar—nothing disturbing,” he added quickly before von Schraeder could object, “merely character-indicating.”

“What about the cheekbones?” von Schraeder asked curiously. They might have been discussing the proper selection of a uniform for a formal party.

“I do not believe it vital. Starvation alters a man's face in a remarkable fashion. Before you leave here, your cheekbones will naturally be far more prominent.”

“Except, Doctor, I do not expect to continue starving forever,” von Schraeder said dryly, “but I do expect to remain disguised forever.”

“True. Odd that I should have overlooked that,” the doctor said apologetically. “Still, I haven't done any serious plastic work for some time. However, it should be no problem.” In an equally apologetic tone of voice he went on. “And what if, under the anesthetic, my knife should happen to slip? I mention this because I'm sure you've considered the possibility. You seem to have considered everything else,” he added bitterly.

“Of course I considered it. Either Benjamin Grossman leaves Ward Forty-six to be transferred to Natzweiler, or sealed papers being held somewhere, by someone, will automatically be opened. Tell me,” he went on in the same amused tone, “have you listened to your radio this evening?”

“No.” The doctor was mystified by the question.

“Ah, well, you'll hear of it in the morning, if not sooner. There was a serious attempt on Hitler's life this afternoon; a bomb exploded at a conference. He wasn't scratched—can you imagine?—but all those involved will be rounded up. The purge of '34 will be a tea party in comparison. They will strangle colonels with picture wire; they will drown generals in their own excrement. You should never have gotten involved …”

The doctor's face had gone white. Von Schraeder smiled and reached over, patting Schlossberg on the shoulder.

“But there is no need to discuss unpleasant alternatives, especially those that need never arise. What other questions do you have?”

The doctor stared down at the hands in his lap a few moments and spoke without looking up. “What of the nurses I will need to work with me in the surgery?”

“You will use orderlies and they will be prisoners. Who, I'm afraid, will not survive. That will also be your responsibility.”

“I see.” Now the doctor looked up. His expression was more curious than anything else. “And what assurance do I have, when the surgery is complete and the stitches have finally been taken out, that I, myself, will survive?”

Von Schraeder looked honestly surprised at the question.

“The best. My word. Besides, I will need you to arrange my transfer to Natzweiler, to the experimental work there. The papers are all complete; as an ex-
Sonderkommando
and as a volunteer—in quotes—at Ward Forty-six at Buchenwald, I shall go there as an orderly, and the papers will be signed by you. And at that stage, being a prisoner, I would scarcely be in any position to harm you.” He sounded slightly hurt by the question. “Besides, what kind of a man do you think I am? If you help save my life, do you think I am so lacking in gratitude that I would allow you to be killed? That's a monstrous accusation.”

The sheer inconsistency of the man almost took the doctor's breath away; he mentally shook his head. He means it, he thought; how very odd, but von Schraeder actually means it!

“As a matter of fact,” the colonel went on, “among those papers are an introduction to a Major Gehrmann, who will introduce you to a group dedicated to saving people like you, if the necessity should arise. There is also a check made out to cash on a special Swiss account, a bank in Zurich, and signed with a signature they will recognize electronically. You will be well paid for your work, Doctor.” And if Gehrmann is picked up and executed for his part in Valkyrie, can I help that? Although the check is honest enough.

Dr. Schlossberg shook his head. “You're a strange man, Colonel.”

“Benjamin,” von Schraeder said gently with a smile. “Benjamin Grossman. A product of our times, is all, Doctor. Shall we get started?”

The death of Colonel Helmut von Schraeder caused small stir in the camp; he had not been there long enough to make friends, nor had he appeared to be the sort to make many friends in any event. In Berlin the news was also received with small concern, even by people who, like Willi Gehrmann, had known him for some time. There was too much to worry about at the moment, with the thorough investigation being conducted into the bombing plot, to be greatly concerned about a colonel who died of typhus in a camp hospital. Too many others of equal name and higher rank were being taken prisoner by the Gestapo and the SS and died in far more terrible fashion.

And five days later, when a bandaged Benjamin Grossman lay in pain in his moldy bed in Ward Forty-six, slowly starving on a liquid diet that consisted of a thin tasteless soup and nothing else, desperately wanting a cigarette and wondering, for the first time, if possibly his plan had been unnecessary and that he might have done better taking his chances with the Strasbourg Group, Dr. Schlossberg came by and sat down beside his bed.