Pursuit (7 page)

No, the colonel was quite serious in his treasonous statements.

But, then, a big question. Why would a man as sophisticated as the colonel, as smart as he was rumored to be in the camp, why would a man like that make statements that left him at the mercy of the person he was speaking to? Why would the sharp and normally taciturn Colonel Helmut von Schraeder volubly place himself at the mercy of ordinary Dr. Franz Schlossberg for possible denunciation to the authorities and almost certain death by hanging?

The colonel was watching the play of expression across the doctor's face as each succeeding thought registered, one after the other, almost as if they were being projected on a screen.

“No,” he said quietly.

Schlossberg looked up, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, no. I am as safe in your hands as I was in the hands of my nanny as a child. To begin with, I doubt if your word of this conversation would carry much weight against mine—” The doctor's face reddened at having his thoughts read so accurately. Von Schraeder continued easily before the doctor could even deny it. “Secondly, do you honestly believe I would speak to you as I have if I didn't have the assurance of your silence? My dear Franz, I have appealed to your friendship with the girl Sarah and with this transfer, for which I am sure you will eventually be grateful. I later intend to appeal to your greed with offers of money, should the need for your services arise. But at the moment, I merely intend to appeal to your own sense of salvation—”

“
My
sense of salvation?”

“Exactly. My dear Franz, I have planned this quite carefully, I assure you. I have in my possession papers clearly indicating you are a member of a group actively plotting against the Fuehrer's life …”

“
I? Me?
” The doctor's face was ashen as he listened to the monstrous fabrication. “I never! It's a lie! It's a horrible lie!”

“I believe you,” von Schraeder said calmly, “but who else will? The papers appear quite authentic, I assure you …”

“I—” The doctor fell silent, as recognition of his position slowly came to him. Oddly enough, the actual realization of his terrible state somehow seemed to calm him. He considered the colonel with almost fatalistic detachment.

“Why?”

“I thought I had explained that. Because there is a good chance that I will need your professional help, and when the time comes—if it comes, which I hope it will not—then I should not like to have a great many discussions about the matter. There very well might not be time.”

“And when the time comes, if the time comes—which you hope it will not—exactly what service will you wish me to perform that you don't want any discussion about at the time?”

Von Schraeder laughed.

“You know, Franz,” he said amicably, “we may end up being friends, yet. When the pressure is on, you come together nicely. I always thought you would have to, in your profession.” His laughter disappeared as quickly as it had come; he suddenly looked grim. “You are being transferred to Ward Forty-six at Buchenwald. I am going there as assistant deputy commandant. Isolation Ward Forty-six at Buchenwald handles all typhus and virus research. When the time comes—if it comes which I sincerely hope it does not—what I will want from you is very simple. I expect you to help me die. Of typhus.”

The doctor stared. Von Schraeder smiled faintly.

“I think we had best get some rest. It's a long way yet.” And he leaned back in his corner and closed his eyes, the faint smile still on his lips.

They had passed Radom some time before. At Piotrkow-Tribunalski the chauffeur turned to intercept the highway from Lodz to Breslau at Lask, turning into it, heading south. Here, as both von Schraeder and the chauffeur had anticipated, the road was crowded with the movement and sound of war. Although the day had warmed considerably, the car windows were now kept shut against the dust. Troop carriers edged past in the opposite direction, the soldiers on them leaning forward, their rifles pressed tightly against the floor for balance, their faces a mixture of too young and too old, dulled with the boredom of their seemingly endless journey, being carried to Warsaw and the Vistula, the new front. Other troops on foot slogged wearily toward the rear, toward a rest camp, a hospital, or some restaging area. Their faces spelled their ordeal; they paid little attention to the carriers with the fresh troops, or to the chauffeur-driven limousine with the SS flag on the fender and the two officers seated in comfort as it edged past them. Tanks clanked along the road, heading to the east, diverted from other fronts, forcing vehicular and foot traffic to the shoulder. High in the sky unidentifiable planes seemed to wander about as if lost.

At Kepno they paused for lunch and von Schraeder roused himself from his nap. They pulled several hundred yards from the crowded main road along a deserted cart path, and their taciturn driver brought a hamper from the trunk, rummaged in it for his share, and went to sit under a tree to eat, apart from his superiors. Von Schraeder and Schlossberg took their meal inside the car, the doors open to catch some breeze, watching the troops on the road.

They
know, von Schraeder thought; they know the war is lost. They must know, those innocent young faces, those old lined faces. A few months ago the young ones were still in school, waiting impatiently to graduate and take their place in the brave new world we were winning for them; the old men were sucking their pipes around the fireplace of the nearest tavern, off duty from spotting planes or growing victory gardens. Now they are decked out in ill-fitting uniforms after a hasty training with broomsticks. They must know the war is lost, yet they still march to their annihilation, like ants on a trail. Or, more aptly, like steers in an abattoir, to their death. And what does this do to your theory of survival? he asked himself, and satisfied himself with his answer: there will always be lemmings. But none, he added with satisfaction, named von Schraeder.

He finished his bottle of wine and tossed it negligently from the car, almost as a symbol of his nonreturn. Their driver had come to his feet and was brushing crumbs from his uniform, preparing to return to the car and the resumption of their journey. Schlossberg dumped his rubbish out of the car door and closed it, leaning back in his corner, closing his eyes, as if by doing so he could shut away the thoughts in turmoil in his head. Von Schraeder closed his door as well, leaning back, glancing at the doctor. The conversation before had gone well, he thought. He had given the doctor the stick; now perhaps a return to the carrot was in order.

The car was put in motion; they bumped their way back to the main road, waited for a break in the endless traffic, and joined the parade, speeding up a bit whenever possible, passing ambulances and troop carriers and lines of men marching single file on the shoulders of the road, lines that stretched for miles. A fog had fallen shortly after they regained the road and now it began to drizzle, although the increasing downpour seemed to make little difference to the weary men trudging dispiritedly back down the road to Breslau. Von Schraeder cleared his throat.

“Doctor—”

Schlossberg's eyes flew open. “Yes?”

“When I was in Berlin last week there was quite a bit of discussion about Allied leaflets that had been dropped from planes. Talk of war-crimes trials. They call Hitler a war criminal, of course, as well as Goering and Himmler, Goebbels, and—”

“Of course they would consider our leaders to be war criminals!” Schlossberg said bitterly. “It's to hide their own crimes and the crimes of the Jews! What about the torture of our prisoners in their prisons? What about the Russians raping women and killing children in Poland when they retreated to Stalingrad last year? Do they think nobody knows of those things? What about the murders they committed in bombing Hamburg, an unarmed city? What of the fact that they bomb civilians everywhere, even their own allies, just because there happens to be some German troops in the area? What about those things?” He turned to look from the car window, dismissing the discussion.

“Yes,” von Schraeder said quietly, “but that was not my point. The leaflets also speak of searching out and hanging some of the SS men who mistreated prisoners—”

He smiled faintly at the thought, although his slate-blue eyes were cold and grim. Mistreated prisoners? What would they do and say when they uncovered places like Maidanek, or Auschwitz-Birkenau, or Sibibor, or Treblinka, or Ravensbrook, or Sachenhausen, or Dachau, or all the other hundreds of camps? Possibly the world might think for a while that the horror stories were merely atrocity scares, but the war-crimes justices would know better. He glanced over at Schlossberg; the doctor seemed disinterested.

“—as well,” von Schraeder continued, “as searching out and hanging a few doctors.”

“Doctors?” Schlossberg swung around, his attention captured. “Why?”

“They mention some names in particular—Professor Hirt, for example, late of Buchenwald, now at Natzweiler, I believe. Vaernet, and Haagen. Also Mrgowski was mentioned, as I recall—and a certain Dr. Franz Schlossberg …”

The doctor stared; he looked as if he might begin to cry. He wanted desperately to deny the charge, or believe the colonel was only saying it to disturb him, but he was sure the colonel was telling the truth. As the colonel was, indeed. Franz Schlossberg had made it to the atrocity list.

Schlossberg was almost wailing, “But, why?
Why
?”

“Well, they mentioned experimenting on human beings without benefit of anesthetics, for example. They speak of the removal of healthy organs, or arms and legs. They say something about inducing diseases, such as typhus, purposely—”

“They have no right to talk of punishing us! We were only doing our duty!”

Von Schraeder nodded as if in complete agreement.

“Yes, but your duty to whom? Hippocrates? Humanity? The men you wrapped in sheets so they couldn't move, last winter, when you soaked them in water and put them outside to freeze—?”

“It was a scientific experiment,” Schlossberg said hotly. “We tried to revive them afterward and even saved a few. Our fliers face being forced down in the North Sea during winter—”

“And the women you sterilized by burning their ovaries with high doses of x rays? Without, I might mention, bothering to anesthetize them, even locally?”

“We were following orders! We were only doing our duty!”

“You mean,
befehl ist befehl
? An order is an order? My friend, believe me when I tell you they won't hang you one inch less high for having done your duty.”

Schlossberg stared at his fingers as if seeing them for the first time, for the first time aware of the power their talent had to get him in trouble, possibly even to get him hanged.

“But I am telling the truth,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “I did it for my country and for the Fuehrer, whether they laugh or sneer at that explanation or not, or whether they accept it or not. But,” he added under his breath, still speaking to himself, “I hated it. I always hated it!” He looked up. “I wasn't like the others. I am a doctor, a surgeon. At Laukhammer I saved many, many lives! It's true, it's on the record! I'm not like the others! Hirt isn't even a doctor. I hate to give pain. If a patient was in pain—”

“You injected him with carbolic or evipan out of humanitarian principles, of course,” von Schraeder said smoothly.

“It's true! I have done it!” Schlossberg turned on the colonel, his eyes blazing, his control slipping. Von Schraeder watched him with amusement. “It's true! I'm not like you! You've killed hundreds of thousands in your gas chambers, and you talk of me! I know all about you! Before you came to Maidanek you were at the front for a year, killing, killing, killing! You like killing!”

Von Schraeder nodded calmly.

“Do you expect me to deny it? I liked being at the front and seeing a man die under my bullet. All men like killing. If they didn't, there would be no wars. Why do men hunt? Because they enjoy killing; in fact they call it a sport, a blood sport. Really, you know, it's the opposite side of the coin of survival. How can one enjoy sweet if he has never tasted sour? Or enjoy pleasure if he has never known pain? And how can a man enjoy the feeling of being alive if he has never seen others die and imagined what it must be like? How can a man feel the power of life if he has never enjoyed the power of death?”

Dr. Schlossberg was staring at him in disbelief. Von Schraeder shook his head a bit impatiently.

“My dear Franz, do not look at me as if I were insane. I'm only being honest. If it comes to war-crimes trials, do you think the men who hang us will not enjoy it? Oh, they'll make very pious speeches about our monstrous crimes, but the truth is they would enjoy hanging their own judges just as much. It makes a man realize how very much alive he is, to walk out of a room where someone has just been hanged by the neck. He is walking out and the other is gone, dead, never to walk anywhere again. Just to be buried. Hidden.”

He stared from the window and went on.

“But the gassing of people in the camp was not like this,” he said, almost to himself. “That was simply an engineering problem. There was none of the pleasure of battle in it. There was no satisfaction, other than in having done a necessary job as well as it could be done. Do you understand?” He turned from the window, looking across the car at his companion. He sighed. “No—I suppose not.”

The doctor might not have been listening to him, for Schlossberg said quietly, “Why are you threatening me?”

Von Schraeder looked honestly surprised.

“I'm not threatening you,” he said patiently. “I'm trying to tell you how to survive. When and if the time comes.”

“Which you hope will not.”

“Which I hope will not—but greatly fear will. Then I will tell you where to go and whom to see to get you out of the country and save your neck.”