Volk (12 page)

So Ernst really liked this unit, and did all he could to make it a success.

Then Major Steiner summoned Ernst to his presence. “I have what I hope is not bad news for you, candidate,” he said grimly. “You have been directed to appear before Reinhard Heydrich himself. The papers for your reassignment are now being processed.”

“But I have done nothing!” Ernst protested, horrified.

“You have done everything to be the best SS soldier in my command,” Steiner responded. “This I have told the Commander. I have begged him to allow you to complete your training with me. He will not relent. Perhaps he has a special assignment for you. I am not allowed to inquire.”

“A special assignment,” Ernst echoed. But what he felt was dread.

Steiner stood and proffered his hand. Silently, they shook hands.

•  •  •

Reinhard Heydrich was an impressive figure, tall and fit. His nose was long, his forehead high, his mouth was wide, his lips full, and his eyes were small and restless, yet possessed of uncanny power when they fell on a person. His voice was high and his speech staccato, almost nervous. He seemed hardly ever to complete a sentence, yet his meaning was quite clear. Ernst was awed by him.

“You were in America,” Heydrich said, gesturing in a vaguely westward direction. His hands were long and slender, almost spiderlike in their thinness, but his eyes were predatory. Ernst's feeling of dread intensified. “You have friends there?”

So that was it! His year overseas had made him suspect. “Yes.” Ernst would not have tried to lie, even if he had thought he could get away with it. This man would not be asking questions to which he did not already know the answers.

“Who?”

“Only one, sir, actually. An American who was open minded about foreigners. His name was Lane Dowling.”

“No women?”

Ernst allowed himself a limited smile. “None there, sir. The American had a girlfriend whom I got to know, but my own girl is German.”

“Name them.”

“The American's girl was named Quality Smith. Mine is Krista—”

“What kind of name is that? Quality?”

“She is a Quaker. A small religious sect, of pacifist inclination. I believe that some of their names reflect such concerns.”

Heydrich seemed to ponder a moment, as if finding this information significant. “How do you feel about the Jews?” he inquired abruptly.

So this related to the Jews! Ernst's American contact with them must have returned to haunt him. “Sir, I am a loyal German and Nazi.”

Heydrich smiled. “You are evasive. Answer in detail.”

He was stuck for it. “I have no special feeling about the Jews. I knew some in America, and they appeared to be like ordinary people. I did not inquire more closely.”

“You do not hate Jews?” Heydrich asked sharply.

“I neither love nor hate them, sir.”

“Then how can you be a good Nazi?” Heydrich barked.

Shaken, Ernst fell back on his most private faith. “My believe in Nazism is independent of the existence of Jews. I believe in the Nazi principles of racial purity, anti-Communism, subservience of the individual to the needs of the state, and personal devotion to the
Führer
. As a troop leader in the Hitler Youth I met the great man himself, and he spoke to me and shook my hand. I watched
Triumph of the Will
, the greatest motion picture of all time, the perfect expression of the Nazi way. Since then, in times of private stress or doubt, I have used the swastika as my object of meditation, and it has given me spiritual renewal. It is to my mind an icon of God and a symbol of the
Volk
, the true spirit of the German people. It helped me cope with the strange customs of the Americans.” He drew out the silver swastika he always wore.

“You refused to renounce the Church. You still believe in a Christian God.” It was an accusation.

“I believe that God expresses His will through Hitler and the Nazi party. I see no need to renounce the Church, which also supports God and therefore the things of God, including the Nazi party.”

“So you are saying you would not renounce the Church because that would have implied a partial renunciation of Hitler?”

“To a degree, sir. But I also felt that a true Nazi will not allow himself to be browbeaten by inconsequentials. I and the other Candidates were serving loyally; our Church membership or lack of it had no bearing on that.”

“You would have capitulated, if it had not been for the others,” Heydrich said. “You were trying to spare them.”

The man had uncanny insight. “It is true.”

“Your woman. Why is she so eager?”

Was there nothing this man did not know? “I am in doubt.”

“Could she have Jewish ancestry?”

Ernst was startled. That had never occurred to him, but it could indeed explain Krista's attitude. If there were a suspicion of Jewishness, to be hidden behind the status of being an officer's wife—but no. It did not make sense. Because any woman an officer married would be subject to the most intense scrutiny, her family tree explored for six generations back. The prospect of marriage would increase the risk of discovery, not decrease it. “I doubt it, sir.”

“But you are not sure. So you declined to marry her, until it is known.”

“I declined to commit to marry her because I am not at the stage at which marriage is an option for me.”

“But if she were a Jew—”

Ernst caught on. “She is not.”

“How so suddenly sure?”

“Because you would not be teasing me, cat and mouse, if you did not know. You have traced her lineage and exonerated her. But I will answer: I would not condemn her were she a Jew, but I would not marry her.”

“If the machine gun were in your hands, and Jews before you, would you fire?”

“I would if so ordered. But that would be a task not at all to my liking.”

“There does seem to be a softness in you concerning Jews. What would you have us do with them?”

“I would have us facilitate their departure from Germany. I see no reason to harm them.”

“What of the Gypsies?”

“They are harmless, but they too should leave.”

Heydrich's eyes bore piercingly at him. “The fourth generation, on her mother's side. The suspicion of Gypsism, unconfirmed.”

Again Ernst was startled. “Krista?”

“Would you marry a Gypsy?”

So that was what made Krista so anxious! She feared that she might have some Gypsy ancestry, and that it would make her unsuitable for a good marriage. So she wanted to seal the marriage first. “The suspicion might be unfounded.”

“It might. There seems to be no way to tell, given the quality of the old records. It could be a false alarm. In any event, there is no need for anyone to know. You can marry her if you choose.”

Ernst realized that the man's ploy was not finished. “What do you want of me?”

Heydrich smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. “Merely your loyalty.”

“I am loyal to the
Führer
and to the—”

“Of course. And to me. For the sake of that lovely girl.”

Now Ernst remembered something else that had been whispered about Heydrich. He liked to get evil information on his subordinates—perhaps on his superiors too—with which to blackmail them, so that they could not do any evil to Heydrich. That way the man could trust his people to serve his interest. He had gone to the trouble to find Ernst's vulnerability—which Ernst himself had not known about, before this interview.

“You have an assignment for me,” Ernst said, realizing that this was why he had been summoned here. He felt relief rather than dread, now.

“You are quick to comprehend. That is one reason I selected you.”

Ernst nodded. It was amazing that it was not his ability or dedication that had qualified him for Heydrich's attention, but his hidden vulnerability. Yet this was a far better outcome than he had feared.

“You speak Spanish.”

“German, English, Spanish,” Ernst agreed. “I am not truly expert in—”

“It will do. What do you know of Admiral Canaris?”

Yet another surprise. What could any mission of his have to do with that eminent person? “He is head of the
Abwehr
, the military intelligence service. I am sure he is qualified and competent.”

“Certainly. But is he completely loyal to the cause?”

“I would not presume to question the loyalty of an admiral!”

“Nor would I,” Heydrich responded easily. “But it seems that it does fall on me to verify it. For that I need a skilled, trustworthy, and unknown agent. One who speaks Spanish. One who is ultimately loyal to me.”

“But the Admiral—” Ernst protested, aghast.

Heydrich leaned forward, and his eyes were mesmeric in their intensity. “I know the Admiral, and respect him personally. I was once under his command, on a training vessel in the Navy.”

Ernst was suffering dawning horror. “And you were expelled from the Navy—”

Heydrich laughed. “I left the navy, but through no doing of Admiral Canaris's. He was a good and fair commander, and he taught me much. Perhaps I am now in Intelligence because of him. We are friends. But there is a question which must be resolved. Were there any betrayal by any person in a position as critical as his, the security of the Reich itself could be seriously compromised. We can not allow any chance of that. We must be certain.”

“But I have no notion—I could not—”

“Canaris is a nice man,” Heydrich continued relentlessly. “He tends to be easygoing and gentle, and he has too great an affinity for peace to be entirely trustworthy in the eyes of some.” His eyes flicked upward, and Ernst felt a chill, realizing that the man was obliquely referring to his own superiors, Himmler or Hitler himself. This was truly critical! “But he is too important to be challenged without ironclad evidence against him. So we must seek that evidence, to convict him or to clear him beyond doubt.”

Now those hawk-like eyes bore on Ernst again. “You will be my agent in this matter. I hope you are able to exonerate my friend.” But those eyes were as cold as those of the death's head itself. The man wanted the truth, whatever it was, and he would act on it.

And Ernst would have to get that truth.

Lane felt unbearably lonely after leaving Quality. He wished there had been some other way. But he had known her attitude about violence and war from the outset, so in that sense he had brought it on himself. It was as if he had now separated from his better self.

His flight testing was in Ottawa. First he had to pass an extremely thorough physical examination. He had never enjoyed such things, but knew he would do well, because he was in excellent health. He was correct.

They brought him to an American-built plane, a bright yellow Harvard. This was heavier and faster than anything he had flown before; its top speed was 210 miles per hour, and it had wing flaps.

The instructor saw him gazing at it. “Think you can handle it, mate?”

“Oh, yes,” Lane said quickly. “But not letter perfect.”

“That's why I'm along. I'll take her up, then you'll try it. If you get confused, don't bluff; tell me. We want to come down safely too, you know.”

Lane suspected that the man thought he would be incompetent. He hoped to refute that. But he could indeed make mistakes. He would much rather suffer embarrassment than a crash.

The plane was equipped with duel controls, so that the trainer could take over at any moment. He took off, leveled it, and turned to Lane. “Take her, mate.”

Lane took it. He had been watching carefully, getting the feel of the craft. It was bigger, but not essentially different from the light sports planes he had flown. The underlying principles were the same. In a moment he had the feel of it, as if his nerves were extending out to the wing-tips and tail assembly.

“Bank her left,” the trainer said.

Lane did so. Now the feel was different; the response was somewhat alien. But he was catching on to it. It was like shifting gears on a new car: it was apt to be jerky until the left foot got the precise feel of the clutch, but then it was smooth. Unless the gearbox was balky, as some were. Minimum experimentation could get it straight.

“Barrel roll.”

Lane went into the slow roll; this was familiar to him, and it helped him gain further understanding of the machine.

“Chandelle.”

This was a shift to the side and a climbing turn. It was a maneuver used to get out from under an attacking fighter plane, and with luck reverse the advantage.

“Can you loop the loop?” the trainer asked after routine maneuvers were done.

Lane laughed. “Maybe you could, in this plane. I wouldn't try, and I'd rather be on the ground before you do.”

“Lost your nerve, mate?”

“You bet. I don't know much about this airplane, but I just don't think it's built for that kind of stress. I'm not suicidal. Give me a plane I know can do it without shearing a wing, and I'll try it. I love to do tricks, if I'm sure of the limits.”

“Stand by, then.” The man took the controls, sent the plane into a small dive, then brought it up into the steep climb of the loop. Lane saw where he had misjudged it: this was a faster plane than he was familiar with, and it could go farther up without stalling. It could indeed do the loop.

The trainer brought it over the top and back down, completing the circle. “Your turn, mate.”

Good enough. Now Lane had confidence in the craft, and he had noted the velocities and attack angles as the loop was performed. He emulated these as well as he could, and managed a somewhat less stable loop.

The man nodded. “You'll do, mate. Take her down.”

Lane realized that he had already passed his flying test. Nobody wanted a fool as a pilot, but in battle there had to be nerve and competence, not argument. He had balked at the loop for the right reason, and come through when satisfied that the plane was up to it. He oriented carefully on the landing strip and started down.