Fatherland

“Born, Hamburg, 1922; father died of wounds, 1929; mother killed in a British air raid, 1942; joined the Navy, 1939; transferred to the U-boat service, 1940; decorated for bravery and promoted, 1943; given command of your own boat, 1946 — one of the youngest U-boat commanders in the Reich. A glittering career. And then it all starts going wrong.”

Nebe leafed through the file. March stared at the green lawn, the green sky.

“No police promotions for ten years. Divorced, 1957. And then the reports start. Blockwart: persistent refusal to contribute to Winter-Relief. Party officials at Werderscher Markt: persistent refusal to join the NSDAP. Overheard in the canteen making disparaging comments about Himmler. Overheard in bars, overheard in restaurants, overheard in corridors…”

Nebe was pulling pages out.

“Christmas 1963 — you start asking round about some Jews who used to live in your apartment. Jews! Are you mad? There is a complaint here from your ex-wife; one from your son…”

“My son? My son is ten years old…”

“Quite old enough to form a judgement, and be listened to — as you know.”

“May I ask what it is I am supposed to have done to him?”

“ "Shown insufficient enthusiasm for his Party activities." The point is, Sturmbannfuhrer, that this file has been ten years maturing in the Gestapo registry — a little here, a little there, year in, year out, growing like a tumour in the dark. And now you’ve made a powerful enemy, and he wants to use it.”

Nebe put the folder back in his briefcase.

“Globus?”

“Globus, yes. Who else? He asked to have you transferred to Colombia House last night, pending court martial from the SS.” Colombia House was the private SS prison in General-Pape Strasse. “I have to tell you, March, there is easily enough here to send you to a KZ. After that, you’re beyond help — from me or anybody else.”

“What stopped him?”

“To start court-martial proceedings against a serving Kripo officer, he first had to get permission from Heydrich. And Heydrich referred it to me. So what I said to our beloved Reichsfuhrer was this. ‘This fellow Globus,’ I said, ‘is obviously terrified that March has got something on him, so he wants him done away with.’ ‘I see,’ says the Reichsfuhrer, ‘so what do you suggest?’ ‘Why not,’ say I, ‘give him until the Fuhrertag to prove his case against Globus? That’s four days.’ ‘All right,’ says Heydrich. ‘But if he’s not come up with anything by then, Globus can have him.’ ” Nebe gave a smile of contentment. Thus are the affairs of the Reich arranged between colleagues of long standing.”

“I suppose I must thank the Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

“Oh no, don’t thank me.” Nebe was cheerful. “Heydrich genuinely wonders if you do have something on Globus. He would like to know. So would I. Perhaps for a different reason.” He seized March’s arm again — the same fierce grip — and hissed: These bastards are up to something, March. What is it? You find out. You tell me. Don’t trust anyone. That’s how your Uncle Artur has lasted as long as he has. Do you know why some of the old-timers call Globus "the submarine"?”

“No, sir.”

“Because he had a submarine engine hooked up to a Polish basement during the war, and used the exhaust fumes to kill people. Globus likes killing people. He’d like to kill you. You should remember that.” Nebe released March’s arm. “Now, we must say goodbye.”

He rapped on the glass partition with the top of his cane. The driver came round and opened March’s door.

“I would offer you a lift into central Berlin, but I prefer travelling alone. Keep me informed. Find Luther, March. Find him before Globus gets to him.”

The door slammed. The engine whispered. As the limousine crunched across the gravel, March could barely make out Nebe — just a green silhouette behind the bulletproof glass.

He turned to find Globus watching him.

The SS general started walking towards him, holding a Luger outstretched.

He is crazy, thought March. He is just about crazy enough to shoot me on the spot, like Buhler’s dog.

But all Globus did was hand him the gun. Tour pistol, Sturmbannfuhrer. You will need it.” And then he came very close — close enough for March to smell the sour odour of garlic sausage on his hot breath. “You have no witness” was all he whispered. “You have no witness. Not any more.”

MARCH ran.

He ran out of the grounds and across the causeway and off, up, into the woods — right the way through them, until he came to the autobahn which formed the Grunewald’s eastern boundary.

There he stopped, his hands clutching his knees, his breath coming in sobs, as beneath him the traffic hurtled towards Berlin.

Then he was off again, despite the pain in his side, more of a trot now, over the bridge, past the Nikolassee S-bahn station, down Spanische Alice towards the barracks.